


The ties that bind

by Lost_gallifrey



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe, Asunder tie-in, Dorian Has Issues, Halward is an ass, M/M, Slow Burn, Tevinter, plotty angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-15
Updated: 2016-06-26
Packaged: 2018-03-30 14:59:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 19
Words: 44,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3941149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lost_gallifrey/pseuds/Lost_gallifrey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An Asunder-based AU in which Rhys and Cole fled to Tevinter rather than staying with Evangeline. Captured, they become property of Magister Halward Pavus, who is all too happy to have a mind-reading, human formed demon he can control and use to gain political influence within the Imperium. Dorian begins to question his father's tactics and motives, as well as the true nature of the 'demon' Halward has enslaved.<br/>Risking the strained relationship with his father, Dorian begins to realize that Halward's rise to power comes at too steep a price and forsakes his birthright. <br/>Now free from Tevinter, Dorian and Cole struggle to find their place in a chaotic south poised on the brink of war, and navigate the pitfalls of a relationship that is new for both of them. Luckily, they wont have to do it alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Dying flowers and guilt

“ Again.” Magister Halward Pavus looked up at the gilded ceiling with a sigh of boredom. Beside him his serving man flinched. It had amused Halward to make a servant of the demon's human mage companion; at the very least the man's presence seemed to ensure some measure of cooperation from the creature.

Doing his best to avoid its red-rimmed gaze, Dorian set his staff to the back of the demon's neck. He wasn't fond of his father's harsh treatment of the thing, demon or no, and avoided these sessions as often as he could. It would have been easier to stomach if the demon had ever done anything more threatening than cry and cling to the mage it had been captured with. Focusing a charge of energy through the staff, Dorian forced an arc of pure power into the demon's body, wincing as it shrieked and curled up to try and avoid the pain.

“Now.” Halward leaned forward, watching the demon shiver and pant, the blood trickling from its nose shockingly bright against its pallid skin. “You will cease with the pointless misdirection and tell me something useful or I will have Dorian do that again.”

Dorian rather hoped that wouldn't be necessary, and that the demon would just tell his father what he wanted to know. It had an innate ability to see into human minds, a talent Halward was determined to use for political gain despite the demon's reticence. 

Dorian had never cared for his father's political and social manipulations; the petty and cruel maneuverings that left a trail of feuds and disgraced families. He could hardly blame the demon for not wanting a part of it, no matter how little he liked hurting the helpless creature. Except it wasn't helpless, Dorian reminded himself. It was often hard to see past the young body the demon had manifested; even it had protested its humanity until Halward had proved otherwise. The litany of Andralla had a way of convincing even the most confused demon of its own nature. Once the creature's natural talent of being unseen and forgotten had become a hindrance rather than a curiosity, Magister Pavus had ordered the ancient chant painstakingly branded onto its back-effectively overpowering the ability. 

“This is ridiculous.” Halward flicked a negligent hand at his son. “Again, Dorian.”

“You're sorry.” The demon rarely voluntarily spoke to anyone except the mage, Rhys, so Dorian almost thought he'd misheard the whisper-soft voice. “You don't want to to do it, but if you do he wont question and control. Guilt to cover the disappointment, it burns....” It stopped with a whimper as Dorian reluctantly touched his staff to the base of its spine.

This time Dorian looked away, schooling his face into an expression of negligent boredom. In truth he didn't want to look at the demon's too-human face, or the mage who's glaring at him from beside his father's chair. The southerner wont say anything, he's long since learned he wont be the one punished if he does speak up, but he sets his mouth into a tight unhappy line and when his eyes land on Dorian they are wet with unshed tears.

“He likes the wine that's made of old summers.” The demon, Cole it called itself, finally said in a ragged breathy voice. “It tastes like dancing in the garden. Spin her until she laughs. When she got sick all the flowers died, he leaves the pots empty to remember.”

To Dorian that sounded like little more than gibberish. The kind of rambling nonsense that might have made sense after too much smoke and some of that delectable eastern brandy that tasted of apricots. But Halward settled back with a slight smile of triumph.

“I always suspected Magister Devlin of dallying with that common garden slave. A foolish choice given his families efforts to procure an advantageous marriage for him.” The last was said in a tone of pointed disapproval and a look at Dorian that made him whither. “This will be enough to have his eldest discredited. The magisterium would never appoint a representative with the taint of illegitimacy upon them.”

“You're going to hurt them?!” The demon looked stricken as Halward elaborated on his plans for the unfortunate Devlin's social downfall. Somehow it managed to look more shocked, more _hurt_ than it did at any of the bodily harm that had been inflicted on it.

“Very good.” Halward told the demon as if he was congratulating a hound on a successful hunt. “You've been very helpful.”

Curled on the floor, the demon stared pathetically up at the magister, eyes wide in a face streaked with its own blood. It turned away first, pressing its face against its forearms, thin shoulders shaking in an imitation of human grief. 

“Nicely done Dorian, thank you.” Halward was unexpectedly magnanimous in the face of his victory as he waved over a pair of slaves dressed in the tabards of house Pavus. “Put the demon back in its cell, I have no further use for it today.”

Halward poured a measure of a dark liqueur into a pair of handsome crystal glasses and handed one to Dorian. “By this time next week Magister Devlin will have little choice but to cede his influence to other houses. Thank you again for your assistance in this matter, Dorian.”

The smile Halward turned on Dorian was the most genuine expression his son had seen in an age. It was so unusual to be the recipient of his father's approval that Dorian half choked on a sip of the expensive drink, he wasn't sure if the burn in his throat was from the liqueur or a surge of emotion. 

“An excellent choice.” Dorian waved his glass in appreciation, his father's good spirits were infectious.

“Better than the rot you usually favor, Dorian.” Halward poured out another measure before raising his glass in a toast. “To house Pavus.”

Still standing stiffly behind Halward's chair, the captured mage watched grimly as the slaves urged the demon to its feet with sharp tugs on the warded collar around its neck. There was a smear of blood on the polished stone where it had lain, and the mage stared at it silently with thin tears creeping down his face and soaking into the beard at his chin. Dorian looked away, taking a mouthful of his drink and letting it sit on his tongue, burning away the guilt.


	2. Darkness and questions

Dorian Pavus leaned against the wall and listened to the distant rills of music that managed to trickle down through the stone. Other than those distant echoes and the demon's restless pacing on its tether, it was almost shockingly quiet beneath the bloodless war that was going on in the ballroom above. A war waged in promises and rivalries, politics and betrothals. It was all so sickeningly tedious, and Dorian was utterly tired of having every simpering magister's daughter paraded out for him like breeding stock.

“You're lucky in a way.” Dorian tipped the small dark bottle to his lips and watched the demon falter in its endless jerky pacing, staring at him with wide eyes. “Nobody expects you to be what you aren't.”

The demon continued to stare until Dorian was starting to feel uncomfortable. It would help if it didn't focus _past_ people it looked at. It tugged restlessly at the chain that tethered it in place beneath the feet of the oblivious guests. Even if their words were inaudible, Dorian knew the demon could pick up on the intricacies of their minds, overflowing as they were with all the petty spites of Tevinter's elite.

“Yes?” the demon said hesitantly.”What I was, but not what I want to be. I am pulled...pushed to pain......but I'm all wrong.” It ducked its head, hiding its expression under a filthy shag of once-blonde hair. “I...I want to be more. But you keep making me a monster.”

“If the shoe fits.” Dorian said glibly, taking another mouthful of drink that tasted of long dead cherries. “Technically, you were a monster the moment you left the fade.”

The demon flinched from that like Dorian had physically struck it, its face blanching even paler. It backed up as far as the chain would allow and hunched down; pressing its face into its knees and going so utterly silent it was almost eerie.

Dorian felt a bit wretched for provoking the creature. It was hardly in a position to defend itself and couldn't do anything about being the recipient of Dorian's frustrations. It made him little better than the boys who flung rocks at Magister Vehndal's son, the one who had fought on Seheron and come back with his mind shattered.

“That was uncalled for on my part.” Dorian said stiffly, feeling foolish and uncomfortable. It was one thing to not actively wish harm to the demon, and quite another to apologize to it as if it were as human as the face it wore.

“Words are hollow, empty. They aren't real, they aren't even _things_.”

The demon's voice was soft and muffled, barely audible. Dorian waited with one eyebrow elegantly raised in case anything else would be forthcoming, but the demon didn't speak again.

________________________________________________________

The pointless revelry didn't fade until the early hours of the morning. Hours of political and social backbiting disguised as faux-friendly rivalries and promised favors. Truces and secrets bought with empty promises and unwilling betrothals rather than coin. Trading positions and power with smiles on their faces and poison in their glasses.

Dorian wandered the empty halls after the last guests had left. Wondering idly what horrible secrets their guests had unwittingly spilled. How many had looked at smiling Magister Pavus and his handsome son and thought well of them, unaware that the gathering was a ruse, a guise under which to tease their very minds for secrets that could topple houses. No matter what Dorian thought of the nobility of the Imperium, the whole scenario made him sick. Or that could have been the wine....

Halward had long since sought his bed. Tired from an evening of subtle manipulation; his dreams unsullied by morality and ripe with thoughts of future glories. He was in his element as a host and the guests had flocked to his magnetic charisma and power like a school of bright fish around a shark.

Tired, but unready to sleep, Dorian passed a few servants. Pausing only to bow at his passing, they returned industriously to their work. By the time Magister Pavus awoke there wouldn't be so much as a scuff mark on the polished floor.

For some reason he couldn't explain, Dorian found himself on the stairs that wound down into the lower levels. One of the unused storerooms down there had been barred and warded, used to confine the demon when Halward wasn't using it.

It was an ugly little room, windowless and lightless. The demon had gone berserk the first time Halward had locked it in there, battering itself bloody against the stone walls before screaming itself nearly comatose. It was that inexplicable terror of the small, dark space that had become the cornerstone of Halward's attempts to train the creature. If it was tractable and useful a small lamp would be left lit for it; if it insisted on being willful and stubborn it was confined in the dark and left to its hysterics. 

There was a soft glow at the bottom of the stairs, which surprised Dorian. It was unlike his father to be kind enough to leave a light when the demon hadn't been of much use yet, and wouldn't be until it was interrogated. It wasn't exactly in the habit of volunteering information. There was a voice too, and that was unusual enough that Dorian crept the last few steps and peered around the corner.

The captured mage was there, sitting against the bars with a book balanced on his knees. A small glowstone, such as most of the servants carried, let off enough soft light to read by. Which was unfortunate, Dorian thought, because Tevene was obviously not a language the southern mage was familiar with and he was absolutely butchering the syntax and pronunciation. 

As painful as it was to listen to the mage, Rhys, Dorian remembered, read like a half blind child, he found himself too fascinated to move. Technically he should have intervened. Nobody was supposed to be down here without permission, especially with a book that was obviously purloined from the Pavus library. Either of those infractions would earn Rhys a flogging. Halward Pavus was not a man who took disobedience lightly.

Rhys paused in his blundering attempt of the latest page and gave a soft, self deprecating laugh. “I don't think I remember as much of my lessons in Tevene as I had hoped. Maker, that makes me feel old.”

“I don't mind.” The demon was curled as close to the mage as the bars would allow, hands clenched in his servant's tunic. “I don't know the words anyway, but they make pictures in your mind. Faded, fuzzy, fractured. Like a memory of a painting....but getting stronger.”

“Huh.” The mage looked at the demon curiously. “Is that new?”

“Yes.” The barest hint ob a gap-toothed smile flickered across the demon's features, softening the melancholy and suffering stamped on its thin face. “I learned, but it's still growing.”

Dorian wasn't sure what that meant but Rhys apparently did because his mouth twisted into a small, bitter smile. “That's good.” Rhy's voice was infinitely sad, “that's good, Cole.”

They sat in silence for a long moment, enough time for Dorian to start back upstairs before the demon spoke again.

“You wish you were home. Smell of old books and the templars singing the chant in the morning. You miss Evangeline.”

“I do.” Rhys closed the book and set it aside. “I never thought I would admit to missing a templar...”

“I'm sorry.”

“Don't be.” Rhys reached through the bars to brush aside the hair that hung in front of the demon's hollow eyes. “Don't be sorry, Cole. None of this is your fault... it never was.”

Dorian padded up the stairs in uncharacteristic silence, feeling like an intruder in his own house. The entire scene had made him uncomfortable. Either the mage was rampantly, monumentally stupid and courting possession, or the bond between him and the demon was genuine....friendship? Dorian had always assumed that the connection was some manner of parasitic co-dependency, the thought that it might be by choice....

As he slid between cool sheets, Dorian wished his sumptuous bed wasn't so empty. Mindless pleasures of the flesh would go a long way to banishing the doubts that plagued his mind. As Dorian drifted in a haze of half drunken sleep, one thought kept worming its way back into his head: the southern mage had shown more affection to a demon in a few moments than Halward had shown his son in years.


	3. Blood and sentiment

The workroom smelled of blood. It wasn't that Dorian was bothered by the smells of death, no necromancer could be and still practice their art. Only, this wasn't death, it was just blood, a source of ancient, forbidden magics that Dorian had never thought to see practiced in the halls of house Pavus.

“Ah, Dorian, you're back. Good.” Halward Pavus glanced distractedly at his son. “Help me with this.”

Whatever 'this' was it obviously involved the demon that was sprawled out on one of Halward's marble worktables with its collar shackled tightly enough to keep it lying supine. The sight made something turn over in Dorian's stomach. He'd done a lot of thinking, followed by drinking, after watching the demon and the mage, and while he hadn't come to any particular decision he had made a marked attempt to avoid being part of his father's exploration of the creature's uses. 

“It's fascinating really.” Halward held up a stoppered vial of dark liquid. “The differences between the demon's blood and a human's are subtle, almost negligible.”

Dorian hadn't previously noticed the shallow slice just below the demon's collar, a thin line that oozed dark blood down its shoulder. No wonder it was breathing in short, panicked gasps, every muscle in its slender body locked into a rictus clench. 

“I was unaware you had started practicing blood magic, Father.” Dorian couldn't, and didn't really try, to keep the disgust out of his voice. Halward had always practiced more elemental magic, eschewing blood magic as the bastion of the desperate and weak.

“I do not, as you well know.” Halward took up an empty vial and a small knife. “ However, Magister Vestius has expressed a quiet interest in the blood of fade born entities.....for research purposes of course. He has promised to be very generous, and a patron with such connections could be very useful.” 

Dorian grimaced. House Vestius was highly regarded, with bloodlines that traced straight to the Arcon himself. It was perhaps that connection that allowed them to practice their foul blood magics with far less discretion than other houses. Their eldest son was only a few years older than Dorian, already a magister, and with a reputation for cunning cruelty....no doubt the reason he had ascended to his position as fast as he had. His 'experimental magics' left bodies, or slaves so broken that death was a mercy; he was powerful, ruthless and utterly morally repugnant. 

“So, you just plan to _benefit_ from blood magic. Wonderful, that's so much better.”

“Your naivete does you no credit, Dorian.” Halward took hold of the demon's arm and it moaned, twisting against its bonds. “This is a tool, a means to and end and nothing more. Come here and hold it still for me.”

Dorian hesitated long enough for Halward to look at him with impatient disapproval. Even if he were prone to deep self analysis, Dorian would have been hard pressed to explain his reticence. His father had explained that the demon didn't feel pain like a person, that its reaction to pain stimuli was nothing more than concern for its physical form. It wasn't human after all.

Not human. How many times had Dorian heard that excuse used to rationalize casual brutality. From the magisters who brought Qunari prisoners home blind and gelded, paraded out for the jeering masses. Or the houses that had a policy of drowning any slave-born children at birth rather than put food into a mouth that wasn't useful.....

“Dorian!” Halward prompted, his face falling into an expression of tight-lipped disappointment that made Dorian feel like he was a child again, poised on the cusp of failure.

There was a lump in Dorian's throat that he couldn't seem to swallow, it threatened to make him gag as he wrapped one hand around the demon's wrist, bracing the other against its shoulder to hold it still. He couldn't look at its face and wished he couldn't hear the scared-animal noises it was making.

Dorian had never touched the demon before. He'd assumed it would be cold, its skin unnatural.....human flesh formed of fade-born imagination. But when Dorian held it, under Halward's directions, he was shocked by how warm it was. He never would have guessed it wasn't human if he hadn't already known. Every detail, from the play of muscle and shift of bone beneath the pale skin, to the dusting of fine hair its forearm; even the rapid thrum of its pulse under his fingers felt....real.

The demon gave a sharp cry as Halward's knife opened the flesh just below the elbow joint, pressing in until blood spurted thickly over the blade. It struggled weakly against Dorian's grip before subsiding, breathing shallowly as Halward filled vials with its blood.

“I have little doubt this will secure favor with House Vestius.” Halward's voice was rich with appreciation, approval dripping off his tongue like bitter poison. He only faltered when he noticed the revulsion that Dorian couldn't have scrubbed from his face if he'd tried. “Some ends are worth the means, Dorian, no matter how distasteful you may find them. You were always too soft to see what needed doing.”

The last was said with exasperated fondness that, for once, roused nothing in Dorian other than sick guilt.

Dorian set the demon's arm down gently once his father was obviously done with it. The creature had its eyes shut, tears creeping from under the lids to trickle down the sides of its face and soak into its tangled hair. If he'd been thinking, Dorian would have ignored it, but it was simple instinct that made him reach out and brush the tears away.

The demon froze at the same second Dorian did, cracked mirror eyes opening wide under the straggling edges of its hair. Dorian waited for it to pull away. Honestly, given what he had just been a part of, he wouldn't have blamed it if it'd bitten him. Instead it tentatively pushed against his hand, so desperate for kindness that it would forgive Dorian's actions in exchange for a few moments of comfort. 

The ramifications of the simple gesture hit Dorian like a punch in the gut. That wasn't the actions of a mindless _thing_ , nor the subtle malevolence his father had warned against. There had been no shift or surge in the fade that would herald the demon attempting any kind of aggressive magic. Nothing but a demon that looked so horribly like a hurt young man with its cheek resting against Dorian's palm, its frightened panting hot against his wrist.

“I trust I do not have to remind you that this is to remain between us, Dorian.” Halward finished swaddling the vials in cloth and tucking them into a lacquered box. “All that is generally know is that magister Vestius is simply conducting research into maladies of the blood. Research which this house has no connection to.”

Dorian wanted to spit. “I'll try to restrain myself from shouting it off rooftops, father. After all, we must keep up your precious appearances.”

Halward raised an eyebrow at Dorian's sarcasm. “Don't be glib, Dorian, it doesn't suit you.”

Closing the box with a soft click, Halward turned to the door. “And if you're going to coddle that thing, then clean it up and return it to its cell.” Dorian's father gave him a hard look and Dorian realized his hand was still resting against the demon's face. “I expect more than sarcasm and sentiment from you, Dorian.”

Dorian had to resist making a childishly rude gesture at the door as it closed behind the magister. It was hard to see the father he remembered in the cold, ambitious man Halward had become. Or maybe he was the one that had changed.....

As soon as Dorian unhooked its collar from the hook on the table the demon shifted, sitting up and holding its arm out to the side awkwardly. It was still bleeding, blood trailing down its forearm to drip from long fingers.

“Just....sit there.” Reasonably clean rags and water were easy to find, elfroot salve took a bit more digging, and Dorian was a bit afraid there were cobwebs in his hair by the time he found a pot at the back of a cupboard.

The demon flinched, but didn't pull away as Dorian carefully pressed a ball of soaked rags over the wound in its arm.”I'm sorry.”

“Why?”

“Why what?” Dorian frowned in concentration as he sponged the worst of the blood away.

“Why would you be sorry?”

“Because it was wrong for my father to do that, and wrong of me to help him.” Dorian said a bit incredulously. Seriously what did it think he'd meant?

Healing arts were not something Dorian had spent much time studying, and he doubted that a demon would heal much like a person anyway. The best he could do was gob on a thick layer of the pungent salve and bind it with the least blood covered rag in the bunch. Just to be safe he wiped another film of the stuff over the shallow slice on the demon's throat, hopefully it wasn't toxic to...whatever the creature was.

“Thank you,” The demon said in the most honest, grateful tone Dorian had ever heard. It touched the makeshift bandage with one finger, as if Dorian had given it something infinitely more precious than questionable old salve and a filthy rag.

“He lied.” Dorian turned from bundling the used rags into the smoldering fireplace to look curiously at the demon. “He took it to learn, how to cut until the pieces fit. There's you, and a you in his head....they aren't the same. He needs to learn how to make them match.”

It was exactly the type of trickery a demon would use to get in a mage's head. Leaning against a table, Dorian stared hard at the creature as it poked at the bandage on its arm. It could be utter nonsense, in fact it probably was. It was natural that the demon would resent Halward, even natural that it would concoct lies to discredit him. His father could be harsh, cruel even.....but he wasn't a bad man.....

“Yes.” The demon raised its head, its voice soft and sincere. “He is.”


	4. Cause and effect

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Dorian finally starts to get a clue, Cole is broken, and Rhys asks a difficult question.

_He lied._

Dorian's head throbbed in time with his footsteps. His body protesting the movement with a catalog of almost-pleasant aches that were days in the making. He could feel the bruises on his hips with each stride, dull points of pain that lingered beneath the skin.

_He took it to learn. How to cut until the pieces fit._

The demon had been quiet as Dorian had led it from the workroom, passively accepting that it would be returned to its confinement. It hadn't protested, hadn't struggled.....hadn't looked anything more than shocked when Dorian turned on it and demanded to know if it had been lying. Hadn't even fought back when Dorian's words had become blows, sharp and angry like a lost little boy railing against an impossible truth.

_There's you, and a you in his head....they aren't the same. He needs to learn how to make them match._

There was a tavern in the city, a place that dealt in secrets and discretion. Dorian hadn't been more than halfway through the first bottle of wine when he'd found a cold eyed stranger who was more than willing. A weapons dealer with hard, bruising hands and the inclination to indulge Dorian's self destructive desire to bury his guilt in the rough heat of being used until it hurt.

Dorian wasn't even sure why he was going down to the demon's cage now. For a bent copper he would have turned around and gone to soak his aches in a scented bath, clean clothes and a glass of good port to wash the taste of forbidden pleasures from his mouth.

The storeroom was cold. The lights burned down to nothing and never relit. Another source of guilt; about the time the oil had burned away that terrible, beautiful stranger was biting down on Dorian's shoulder, teeth leaving marks that bloomed blue and red in the muscle. Calling a flicker of fire he illuminated the bare cell....Halward hadn't even bothered to put a pallet or straw down to keep the demon from having to rest on bare stone. How would it have hurt to at least give the creature a blanket?

The demon roused at Dorian's approach. Uncurling slowly and shakily raising its head like someone waking from a terrible dream. “Rhys?” It asked in a heartbreakingly plaintive voice. “Rhys, they left me. They left me and they forgot....”

“Its not Rhys, just me....” There was a witticism ready to role off Dorian's tongue. Something about him being more interesting, more handsome.....but watching the hope die on the demon's face turned the words to ash in his mouth. 

Warily the demon rose to a crouch. It probably thought Dorian was there to take it to Halward, but even so it edged forward. So desperate for light and company that it was willing to risk whatever torment it had come to expect.

Dorian had come down to apologize, to ask again if the demon had been lying about his father. Except he knew it hadn't been, no matter how much he railed at it and denied it to himself. He'd been denying it for years already; like the pain of a rotten tooth that becomes such a part of you that the ache is second nature. You only noticed the pain when it was pulled free.

Looking down at the demon, Dorian felt ashamed. House Pavus had always treated its slaves and servants well. While there was always discipline, there was never outright cruelty or neglect. They were always well fed and clothed. The servants quarters, while not as sumptuous as the rooms of the main house, had always been clean and comfortable. The demon was housed in a cold, filthy, blood spattered cage that Dorian would have been uncomfortable putting a vicious dog in.

Through no fault of its own, the demon was as grimy as its surroundings. The clothing it had been wearing when it had come into Halward's possession had been ragged to start with, now it was more hole than cloth. What remained of the patched leathers hung from the demon's body in bloody tatters, doing little more than protect the creatures' modesty, if it even understood such a concept.

All the words Dorian had meant to say withered before the demon's hollow eyed stare. It shifted nervously, bony hands pawing absently at the floor, obviously uncomfortable at being the center of attention.

“Are you hungry?” Dorian finally asked, as much to break the awkward silence as out of concern. “My father isn't here, I could get you something from the kitchens if you'd like?”

“I....I..” The demon thought for a lot longer than Dorian thought such a simple question merited. “I don't think I have to eat anymore. I thought I did, then I grew and the song was stronger than before. When it's loud it takes the emptiness away, fills the places that hurt.”

“So that's a no then.” Dorian smoothed his fingers over his mustache, a nervous habit disguised as confidence. “And what is this song?”

“I could always hear it. Soft in the silence, slipping to loud in the old places. I thought everyone could.”

“You thought everyone could hear an imaginary song in their heads?” Dorian couldn't help but smile. The demon certainly was a bizarre creature.

“It's real.” The demon looked up at Dorian with its thin, perpetually tragic face. “But it's changing. Angry.....catching, clawing, it wants me to change too.”

“Change into what? You're already a demon aren't you?”

“Yes.” It replied in flat voice.

“No.” Said a deeper voice, strong with certainty. “No.”

Dorian turned to stare at Rhys as the southern mage stepped off the final stair. He could imagine the man had looked rather distinguished before he'd left his circle, respectable even. He was almost diminished by his simple slaves tunic, his silver touched hair and beard grown ragged. He still moved like he wore robes, hand canted to grasp a staff he no longer carried.

“No?” Dorian folded his arms, hip cocked. He was caught off guard by both the interruption and the calm dignity on Rhys' face, but he'd be damned if he'd show it. “What is it then, pray tell.”

“Cole.”

“Pardon?”

“His name is Cole. He's not an _it_ or a _thing_ , or whatever you people want to call him to feel better about your cruelty.” There was a cold fury lurking in Rhys' eyes, carefully hidden under the obedient persona he was forced to assume. He bowed respectfully to Dorian while every inch of him suggested he wanted to spit in the altus' face.

“I am a demon, a thing. Wrecked and wretched.” Cole's wooden tone turned to one of complete revulsion. “I _hurt_ people.”

“Oh, Cole....” There was a world of regret in Rhys' voice, a hopeless resignation that made Dorian wince.

“I hurt you too.” Cole hunched forward, ragged nails digging into his scalp as he clenched his fingers into his matted hair. “I'm sorry.”

Rhys knelt next to the bars, his face aged with etched lines of sorrow. Stretching out, he carefully untangled Cole's hands, holding them in his own like they were delicate china. “I'm not entirely certain what Cole is, though I have my suspicions. But if it's a demon you want, young master Pavus, then just don't stop. Keep helping your father keep him caged like an animal. Keep hurting him and forcing him against his nature and you'll have a demon soon enough.”

“My, aren't we dramatic.” A desperate part of Dorian wanted to deny the entire thing. His father knew Cole was a demon, he wouldn't....he wouldn't..... “I agree, what father has been doing is.....uncalled for. If the...if _Cole_ just cooperated, answered his questions. It's just politics, it would keep my father busy.”

Cole made a choking sound in his throat that might have been laughter, or he might have been crying. It was impossible to tell with his hair hanging over his face.

“Just politics?” Rhys shook his head, a wry smile twisting the corners of his mouth. “You haven't heard then?”

“I tend to avoid the petty gossip of servants.” There was something sick building in Dorian's stomach, a sour dread that throbbed in time with his aching skull.

“Magister Devlin. The latest victim of your father's 'politics'......” Cole whimpered at the name and Rhys faltered for a moment. “He.... killed himself rather than face the shame of being discredited in front of his honorable peers. Of course he couldn't leave his family to be mocked in his stead....but I am sure your father will make use of his new elevation in the Magisterium.”

Dorian had met Devlin's family once. His eldest a graceful girl who was always dancing, his youngest just a babe in swaddling and wrapped in the arms of his doting mother. Surely the babe would have been spared....

“So small, so small....heartbeat like a bird. He warmed the water first.” Cole muttered, struggling with the words like they hurt. “Fighting, frantic.....then dead.”

“Oh, maker.” Dorian had to look away. Look anywhere except at Cole's hollow eyes, lit with a grief so wild it was almost madness. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because Cole seems to think you are something more than a spoiled little fop too scared to let go of his father's coattails.” The look on Rhys' face suggested he did not hold the same opinion and Dorian bristled. “The question is, master Pavus, is he right?”


	5. Hysteria and healing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Dorian sets out to heal some hurts and winds up facing the realities of his father. (warning for discussed/implications of non-con)

Out of the dimly lit storeroom and against the backdrop of Dorian's extravagant private rooms, Cole looked shockingly out of place. Pale and ragged, furtively twisting his hands together and looking for all the world like a lost crow in a peacock pen.

For the first time, Dorian was almost ashamed of the luxury he had acquired over the years. Somehow, watching Cole stare around at the riot of colors with hollow, bruised eyes made it all seem terribly shallow. 

“Come on then,” Dorian cajoled as Cole stopped to look apathetically at a water filled vase teeming with delicate silver minnows. “Follow me.”

It was almost disturbing how easily Cole followed him. Dorian would almost have preferred it if he flinched away or tried to run, anything other than his passive dead-eyed acceptance. He reminded Dorian uncomfortably of the drugged animals used in the live sacrificial rites, full of fear and dread and utterly unable to do anything about it. That only eased when Dorian led him into the bathing room, and Cole released a breath Dorian had no idea he'd been holding.

“I thought you might like a chance to get clean. Father's busy gloating over his new advancement.....not that he ever comes in my suite anyway.” Dorian raised an eyebrow as Cole stared at him nervously, he was shaking now, little muscle tremors that darted beneath his skin. “Why else did you think I would bring you here?”

“Rhys said you would find a way to free me.” Cole looked contemplatively around the tiled room. “It would be easier to clean here.”

“What?” Dorian was still struggling with Cole's odd, sometimes random sentences.

“It's easy. I can show you.” Cole caught Dorian's hand and pressed it to his own thin chest, moving Dorian's fingers down until they fitted into a dip between his ribs. “The blade goes here. Press in and up, into the soft parts. No more hurt, no more hurting. I'm falling, fading, forgotten but free.”

Dorian yanked his hand away and turned, busying himself with an armload of towels to cover up the bile that surged in his throat. A spirit, Rhys had said; a gentle creature lost and utterly confused by the real world. Mercy had been the southern mage's guess, perhaps empathy, sympathy or sorrow. A benevolent spirit standing in his bathing room waiting patiently for Dorian to put a knife between his ribs.

“That's not....that's not what he meant. At all.” Dorian set the water in the largest bath to steaming with a negligent wave of his hand, wondering if Cole was relieved or disappointed. “Now get those rags off. This will make you feel better.”

Despite looking dubious, Cole dragged his tattered shirt off readily enough, wincing a little as the rough material caught on scabs and half-healed burns. The torn leather trousers followed suite before Dorian could even ask if Cole wanted some privacy. 

Undressed, the sight of Cole made the breath catch in Dorian's throat. It wasn't with the appreciation he usually would have had for a naked young man in his bathing room, but with a guilt ridden horror. Every inch of Cole's skin was like a topographical map of abuse. Bruises layered on bruises until they bloomed in a sickening array of colors under too-pale skin.

The half-moon welts on Cole's hips and the dried blood on his scratched thighs shouldn't have been a shock, but somehow it still was. With every ounce of dignity he possessed, Dorian set cloths and soap on the edge of the bath before walking to the privy and throwing up until his stomach hurt.

Cole was standing awkwardly when Dorian returned, wringing his hands nervously and looking utterly miserable. 

“In you get,” Dorian said gently, with a smile he in no way felt. There was a smattering of freckles on Cole's left shoulder, and Dorian focused on that in the hope he could block out everything else.

“It's warm!” Cole enthused as he slid into the water, any reticence forgotten and sounding as impressed as Dorian had ever heard him. He didn't smile, not quite, but the mask of suffering slipped a bit in the face of his obvious relief.

Of course it's warm.” Dorian watched Cole scoop up water, seemingly fascinated as it ran through his fingers. “You have had a bath before, I assume?”

“Yes. There was water in the pit. Even if you floated it still felt like sinking.” Cole seemed to think for a moment. “And when Rhys and I were traveling I fell off a bridge, the river was very cold.”

“You.... fell off a bridge?” 

“Rhys says I have more limbs than I know what to do with.” Cole looked curiously over at Dorian, “but I think I have the same amount as everyone else.”

“What I think is that this is well overdue.” Handing over soap and a washcloth, Dorian rolled up his sleeves and looked despairingly at the mess months of captivity had made of Cole's hair.

Even washed, Cole's hair was so fine and so utterly snarled that Dorian was on the verge of giving up until it dried. “I have to ask, was it my father?” Dorian paused with the comb while he picked at a knot, almost hating the perverse need to know that forced the words out of his mouth. “Was it him that....hurt you? Forced you?”

“Yes.” Cole touched his fingers to the healing gash on his arm. “Hurts that heal, forcing words that wound. People shouldn't die because of me.”

“I meant....” Dorian grimaced. “Sexually.”

“Oh. Like the templars.” Cole looked anxious. “Except I don't know if that was the me that I am, or the other me that I remember.” When he spoke again, Cole's lilting, breathy voice was sharp and clipped, Halward evident in every cold word. _”You may do what you like with it, I am tired of its disobedience. Provided it is functional tomorrow, I give you free reign to punish it as you see fit.”_

“Oh. Oh, Maker.” Dorian set the comb down with shaking hands, sliding down until his back rested against the edge of the bath.

It was almost impossible for Dorian to reconcile. This was his _father_ , the same man who had almost cried with pride the first time Dorian had stood in the center of the workroom and called fire; elegant, delicate forms that far surpassed the other students his age. The same man who had insisted his Altus son recognize the importance of honor and personal integrity.

Even if Halward _was_ convinced that Cole was a demon, allowing or condoning....that...was....Dorian didn't even realize he was crying until his vision blurred. Pressing his hands over his eyes he bit back a sob as hot tears streaked his fingers with kohl.

“I'm sorry. This hurt you.” Cole's hands were wet and tentative as he gently patted at Dorian's head. Touching him as if he were a skittish animal to be calmed.

" _You_ aren't the one who should be apologizing.” Dorian said, or at least he meant to, except when he opened his mouth it was a rasping bark of laughter that came out instead.

It was hysteria, or something close. A grief that was half neurotic amusement and half honest loss. Dorian was vaguely aware that he must look and sound ridiculous in the same way he was vaguely aware that Cole had wrapped his arms around his shoulders, soaking Dorian's robes in the process.

Somehow that comfort was almost worse, even though Dorian knew he was clinging to one of Cole's bony hands like a lifeline. “I'm sorry,” he gasped, feeling like something had torn loose inside him, something that had hurt for years and could finally begin to heal. “I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry.”

“Don't be sorry.” Dorian could feel Cole's damp forehead resting against the back of his neck, voice almost too soft to hear. “I was already broken.”

_____________________________________________

Dorian looked at the piece of parchment for a long moment. For once the House Pavus letterhead roused no pride in him, nothing more than a vague sense of apathy. Calling a flicker of fire, Dorian seared the intricate design away. The top few inches of parchment flared to ash in a heartbeat, leaving only an unmarked page. If nothing else, _he_ would understand the symbolism, and know that the favor Dorian was asking was not one asked lightly. 

Dipping a quill into the inkwell, Dorian paused, looking over at the decidedly odd sight of a spirit fast asleep on his bed. Cole was still wrapped in a voluminous bathing sheet as Rhys was off trying to find him something to wear that was 'less ridiculous' than the options in Dorian's closet. His hair was ragged where Dorian had cut some of the more determined knots free, tousled around a face that looked far too young for the melancholy it wore even while resting.

Tapping the excess ink away, Dorian set the quill tip to the parchment. 

_Dearest Felix.  
I hope this letter finds you well, and that you know I would not ask this of you if the situation wasn't grave..._


	6. Choices and temptations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian gets an offer Halward thinks he wont refuse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not a huge amount going on in this chapter, mostly it's just setting up the next one in which the solid excretions will impact the circular oscillating device.  
> Also it's a bit late....that would be because of elder scrolls.
> 
> And as always, thank you all for your comments and support~it means a lot. :)

Dorian stood at the library window and watched the carriage pull to a halt in the courtyard below. Halward's return wasn't unexpected, although Dorian had hoped he would stay in the capital a while longer to bask in the glory of his new status. 

Felix would help, as Dorian had been sure he would, but he needed time. With Halward back to take up the reins of House Pavus, how long before he needed his demon's services again....

“So what's your great plan now?” Rhys sounded tense and anxious as he joined Dorian at the window, watching Halward's footman unfold the stairs from the carriage door and bowing at his master's exit. “Shall we write more letter, maybe try a new mustache wax?”

“Whereas you would rather rampage through the streets with no planning or forethought.” Dorian looked pointedly over at Cole who was sitting on a table and swinging his legs idly. “You wouldn't last an hour on the streets by yourselves. Cole would show up to any mage like a nice fade-touched bonfire and you couldn't keep your mouth shut if your life depended on it. The templars in your circle must have just loved you.”

Surprisingly, Rhys laughed at that. “There were a few times my mouth got me into trouble....”

“Evangeline liked your mouth.” Cole volunteered. “Sorry,” he added meekly when Rhys flushed red.

Several days of relative freedom and comfort had done Cole a world of good. It was easy for Dorian to see why Rhys was so fond of him; when he wasn't tormented and terrified, Cole was bright, endearing and openly curious about _everything._ The only time he withdrew was if Dorian asked him about his in question nature.

There were times Dorian envied Rhys his spirit medium abilities, even nullified as they were by the simple metal collar that was as effective as a templar's smite. Uninhibited it could answer so many questions.

“What makes you think we couldn't get out of here on our own, without you or your mysterious friend's help?” Rhys' frustration was evident. “We were nearly a week over the border before......if we had fast mounts.”

“The only reason you got as far as you did is because of Cole's 'don't see me' ability, without it you’d be lucky to make it down the street.

As much as Dorian had come to loathe everything his Father was doing to Cole, he recognized that it could have been worse. Other, lower houses wouldn't have the patience or inclination for the subtle political maneuvering that Halward preferred. Cole would have been useful to them in one of two ways: bound and enslaved or, more likely, sacrificed and bound into something useful such as a staff or blade. It made Dorian's stomach churn to think of Cole forced to kneel at a sacrificial altar, a magister's blade at his throat.....

“We can't change.” Cole hunched his shoulders uncomfortably when Dorian and Rhys turned to look at him. “They can't know, can't learn. We have to stay bound and broken.”

“Cole, no...” Rhys looked horrified, his eyes turning incredulously to Dorian. “You can't! You can't put him back in that damned cage, make him a tool for your father to use and abuse....”

“We don't have a choice! I don't like it either.” It was an understatement if Dorian had ever uttered one, and he knew with certainty that he was going to drink himself senseless once his rooms were empty again. That way he couldn't think.....couldn't hear.... “Felix said he would help, we just need to give him time.”

In the end, they had three days.

“Dorian, I haven't seen you since I returned from the capital.” Halward smiled as he spoke, but Dorian could hear the subtle reprimand anyway. A good, dutiful son would have been waiting at the door for their dear father's triumphant return, not drinking themselves into a silent oblivion in the hopes of drowning out the sounds of another pointless interrogation. 

Dorian forced a smile onto his face, a languid smirk that he knew drove Halward to distraction. If nothing else it prevented him from actively spitting in the man's face.

“I've been studying.” Dorian shrugged, “You know how I lose track of time.”

Yes, I had heard you were.... _studying_ the demon rather exclusively. In your quarters. For days.” Halward's lip curled, “I expected better of you, Dorian. I've told you I will not tolerate your dalliances under my roof.”

“My.... _dalliances?_ ” Dorian stared across the desk at Halward in shock. Cole was an engaging creature, sweet even, and Dorian was getting rather fond of him, but he had never....never even considered. “I wouldn't....you cannot be serious, Father?”

Halward actually looked somewhat mollified by Dorian's reaction. Frantic denials he had expected, but not confusion. “Perhaps I overreacted,” he allowed. “Either way, I am more comfortable with the _temptation_ removed. Consider it dealt with.”

“Dealt with?” Dorian felt sick, bile rising sourly in his throat. Cole wouldn't have even fought, wouldn't have begged.....

“I sold the creature, it will be picked up tommorow.” Halward poured a half measure of amber spirits into a glass and sipped at it appreciatively. “Magister Vestius has promised me a handsome price for it, with the clause that he not use it against this house of course. It is a loss, but we cannot very well take it to Minrathous with us.”

“Minrathous?” Dorian faltered, clenching his hands behind his back to stop them shaking. “Ah, yes, your new position. Congratulations.”

“Not my position, Dorian.” Halward handed over a glass, smile tugging at his mouth. “Yours.”

Dorian honestly felt like Halward had yanked the ornate, woven rug out from under his feet. He could almost imagine himself sprawling dramatically across the floor of his father's study. Not knowing what to say, he gulped the contents of his glass, feeling it settle like a steadying hand in his stomach.

“It took some convincing, but the Magisterium and the Senate have agreed to allow you to stand for House Pavus in my stead. You will have to forge your own alliances of course, but it shouldn't be difficult~some of the higher houses have already offered marriage contracts. Now I know,” Halward held up one hand to forestall a protest that Dorian was almost too shocked to voice. “I know you have your... _preferences_ , but it is time to put such behavior aside. Nobody faults a young man a few indiscretions, but play this right and you could live to see your children considered for the Archon throne.”

And there it was. Dorian turned Halward's words over in his mind, marvelling at how little they hurt this time. It was like poking at an infected wound only to find it healed and the pain reduced to a distant ache.

Halward was looking at him expectantly, face alight with hopeful pride that Dorian relaized had never really been for him. That regard was for Halward's perfect, obedient Altus son.....the filial paragon that had only ever existed in his mind.

Dorian should have yelled, he had in the past. Words full of righteous anger and a desperate hope for recognition. To see the pride and approval in Halward's eyes that he remembered from his childhood, to make him _understand._

“Did you know?” Dorian asked instead, oddly proud of how steady his voice was as he watched confusion sour the optimism on Halward's face. “Did you know Cole wasn't a demon?”

“I suspected.” Halward frowned, obviously irritated. “Whatever it is is inconsequential. It was useful, nothing more. Does it even matter?”

He was talking to a stranger, Dorian realized. A man he neither recognized or understood, the master of a house that hadn't truly been his home in years. “Yes, father.” Dorian said as he set the glass down and turned to the door. “It matters.”

Dorian could hear Halward calling his name as he closed the door; an echo of a life he had no choice but to walk away from. It would taint him if he stayed, like the spreading rot of a gangrenous limb that poisons the blood with its foulness. How long before blind ambition twisted him into his father and he was willing to set blade and brand to an innocent to further his own goals? How long until the legacy of House Pavus ate away at him until he could shrug off rape and torture as necessary and inconsequential?

People would think he was mad, Dorian thought. Giving up power, prestige and luxury for a scruffy spirit and a mouthy southern apostate. Walking away from Halward's study, Dorian had never felt so terrified, he'd never felt so free.


	7. Rage and mercy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Dorian murders an asshole, stops Cole from following suite, and then sets things on fire while holding hands with a spirit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit of a longer chapter here, nobody wanted to shut up. 
> 
> Now I know Dorian is a necromancer, but I always make my mages in game learn a bunch of other elemental magic, not just their specialty class....so for convenience, Dorian can do lots of stuff. It was either that or wait while he went to find a dead person (or made one dead) to come cause trouble for him. =P

Dorian wanted to run. It was almost impossible to saunter past curious house slaves as if nothing were out of the ordinary. As if this wasn't the last time he would walk the halls of the house he'd grown up in.

Where the stairs dropped down into the lower levels, Dorian picked up his pace. The plan was simple, get Cole, find Rhys....get out. Initially he had thought he would stay, run any manner of magical interference was necessary until Cole was safely out of Qarinus and running free for the border. But plans changed. Dorian couldn't.....wouldn't stay. Turning the corner he nearly collided with an unexpected figure wearing the livery of House Pavus.

Medar was Soporati, a free servant who had served Halward for decades with a fanatical obsequiousness that bordered on sickening. Officially he was Halward's footman, formerly the house slave master before his punishments over imagined slights and perceived laziness had become too frequent. Too enthusiastic. There was no reason for him to be down here, a fact he must have realized as he turned a simpering smile towards Dorian.

“Young master, good evening.” Medar was blandly handsome, with an every-man's face that he always managed to school into an expression of respectful concern. “I was just checking on your honorable father's property, young master. He was concerned.....”

Distracted as he was, Dorian almost dismissed the man with a wave of his hand. He would have simply walked past if he hadn't stopped and fully looked at Medar. The servant's usually impeccable uniform was askew, trousers rumpled and scuffed at the knees, shirt untucked and only half buttoned. There was a smear of blood on his wrist, visible as he tugged his collar higher to try to conceal the scratches on his neck. 

“Your Lord father said I could.....I could.....I didn't _damage_ it.....I just...I” Medar faltered under Dorian's silent condemnation, the smile sliding off his face like stale grease. 

Dorian had never lashed out with magic out of pure rage before. He had used it in combat of course, elemental and force magics, necromantic spells that turned a force's own fallen against them. There had been sanctioned duels in the academies, careful, regulated, emotionless. Medar was just opening his mouth when Dorian's hands flashed green, spreading out like the air itself was igniting with fade energy, before coalescing into a blow of pure, staggering force. It flung the soporati backwards like a tossed rag, slamming him into the wall beside the cell with a wet crunch that resonated in the small space. He crumpled, scrabbling helplessly at the floor, each breath a blood stained gurgle.

Dorian would have left him there if he hadn't looked at Cole. Crouched at the back of his cage, Cole stared numbly back at Dorian, clothing torn and stained, lip split and throat ringed with bruises. His fingernails were ragged and bloody, Dorian assumed they'd match the scratches and gouges Medar had tried to hide. He'd fought back, hard.

That knowledge roused an inexplicable surge of pride in Dorian. Rhys seemed to be fighting a losing battle with convincing Cole he had in no way earned what Halward did, or ordered done, to him. It was heartbreaking to watch him accept pain and indignity, dismissing it as nothing of consequence. Nothing less than what he deserved. That Cole had at least fought to protect himself was heartening. 

Medar shuddered and flailed. His attempts to speak were little more than animal grunts, a desperate 'uh, uh, uh' that spotted his mouth with blood and spittle. Dorian was almost shocked at how little pity he felt as his birthright surged in his blood, kindled in the staff he rested on medar's chest and froze the man's broken breath in his lungs. He watched dispassionately as Medar's eyes widened and glassed over with ice like a lake in the first frost. His last gasp was a welter of froth and blood that crystallized on his lips, and the low crackle of ice expanding in his lungs.

Cole watched with an utter lack of emotion, head tilted, eyes fixed and unblinking. “Desperate, drowning, dying then dead.” He intoned blandly as Dorian unlatched the cell door. “It was sharp inside, he thought of the girl that said no. He hurt her until she died. Light little body that drifted in the dark until the waves took it away.”

“I'm sorry.” It was a pointless apology, and Dorian was surprised when Cole crowded against him and dropped his head to rest on the mage's shoulder, allowing himself a moment of comfort to just breathe.“I had no idea he was....”

“He kept it hidden, but I still heard.” Cole sighed as Dorian ruffled a hand through his ragged hair. “He wouldn't have changed, wouldn't have grown. _He_ knew it was wrong all along. He can't hurt anyone now. Thank you, Dorian.”

“Of course.” Dorian managed with a flippancy he didn't entirely feel. “Anytime you need a piece of murdering, raping filth frozen solid, I'm your man.”

“I don't think there are any more here.”

“It was a joke,” Dorian laughed. “I really must explain ironic humor to you sometime.”

Cole looked like he might reply, then froze at the same instant Dorian felt a rill of unfamiliar magic. Subtle and almost indiscernible it brushed up Dorian's spine, nagging little fingers that scuttled over his skin and dug at his skull. 

“Stop it! You can't!” Cole whirled with a howl, eyes gone hazy and unfocused. “ Don't...don't!”

“Don't _what_ , Cole?”

“He wants you to change!” Cole grabbed the front of Dorian's robes, fingers catching in the buckles and dragging him towards the stairs with a surprisingly strong grip. “He'll make you not you, change you until you fit what he wants.”

Then Dorian did run. Slaves and servants alike gaped as he dashed past, Cole at his heels and all dignity forgotten as strange magic snapped at his mind and dug into his flesh like worms.

The workroom door wasn't locked and Dorian shouldered it open hard enough that one of the hinges splintered. Halward froze at the explosive entrance, his mouth a shocked 'O' of surprise. 

“Dorian...I..”

Even if the apparatus laid out on the warble worktable hadn't condemned Halward utterly, the furtive guilt in his voice would have done so. He couldn't meet Dorian's eyes, looking instead at the altar on the table. Staring silently at the delicate and terrible runes painted in drying blood, at the knife with a blade honed so sharp it glinted like water. 

There was blood on the Magister's fingers, but whatever enchantment he had begun guttered out at the interruption and Dorian sighed in relief as he felt the slinking touches of it dissipate like fog.

“Blood magic, Father?” Dorian wanted to scream, but laughed instead. “That's low, even for you. And what part of me didn't suit your glorious plans, not obedient enough?”

“If you would just understand, son.” Halward's fingers were trembling, spotting his robes with little flecks of blood. “A marriage....the right girl with the right pedigree. The legacy of House Pavus could last a thousand years!”

'Oh. Of course,' Dorian thought numbly. The only way he had always disappointed. Always failed.

“You would be happier, Dorian.” Halward nodded as if he needed to convince himself. “You would have a future. There would be no more shame....”

Dorian's anger burned through the shock and hurt, leaving him hollow as he watched sorrow and determination settle across Halward's face. He wouldn't stop now, not if it threatened his precious legacy.

“Father...don't!” Dorian cried as Halward reached for the altar. Maker help him he would strike the man down if that stopped him. Who would he be if Halward succeeded? Even if his mind survived, Dorian doubted he'd be anything more than a blank eyed pawn. A perfect example of the Pavus bloodline on display as little more than bloodstock.

Dorian let mana gather within him, and then Cole was just....there. Shy, scared Cole moving so fast Dorian hadn't even seen him leave his side. Halward stumbled backwards as Cole lunged at him, arms flailing for balance as his boots caught on his trailing robes. He was down in a heartbeat with Cole crouched over him like a falcon mantling over its prey, the bloodletting knife clenched in one pale fist.

“No more!” Cole half shrieked, eyes wild and voice ragged. “I'll stop you..” He put the edge of the knife to Halward's throat, pressing down until blood welled up along the blade. _”I'll make you stop.”_

“Wait....” Dorian wasn't sure why he spoke, why he even cared. Nobody would fault Cole, least of all Dorian....and it wasn't as if he hadn't killed before. The blade was sharp enough that it would be over fast...his father would be dead. “Don't...Cole, please.”

Cole twisted his head to stare at Dorian, the look in his eyes barely sane. “He _hurt_ me,” he said petulantly, an almost frightening rage in his voice. “If I don't stop him he'll keep hurting....keep cutting, burning, breaking down until I'm not me anymore. Back in the dark and _don't struggle, don't fight. You're not human, just a thing....nobody cares what I do to you.”_

“No, he wont. He can't.” Dorian could see Cole shaking, the movement jiggling the knife against Halward's skin. “We're leaving, he can't hurt you again.” 

Halward actually whimpered as Cole tightened his grip, the front of his robes darkening with urine. Dorian had never seen his father afraid before, all his power and dignity stripped away to leave him a terrified old man in soiled robes. 

“Easy.” Dorian cautioned as he knelt beside Cole. He didn't like the wild, feral look on his face; the haunted stare of someone driven to their breaking point and beyond. 

“It'll never stop...But it would....It would hurt you if he died?” Cole blinked and the movement freeing tears to streak his pale cheeks. “I don't want to hurt you, Dorian....but I have to make it stop.” 

“It's done.” Dorian gently worked a hand under Cole's, loosening his grip bit by bit until he could ease the knife away. In lieu of the knife handle Cole clung to Dorian's hand, long fingers gripping so tightly it almost hurt. “It's over, nobody is ever going to touch you again, I promise.” 

Cole let Dorian pull him to his feet, body shaking with adrenaline and shock. Halward scrabbled back from them, his face flushing with fury. 

“I want that thing dead!” Halward snarled, pointing a shaking finger at Cole. “I should have had it killed months ago, before it could corrupt you, turn you against me....my only son.” 

They were fine words from a man willing to brainwash his son into a tractable, _socially acceptable_ peon. The mere thought of it made Dorian hot with anger, so he let that manifest as a pillar of flame that scorched Halward's forbidden altar to molten wreckage. Runes glowed bright for a moment in the the blue-white heart of the fire before cracking apart. 

The precious polished surface of the the antivan marble tabletop buckled in the heat, charcoal making crazed patterns in the cracks. The leather restraints that Halward had used on Cole still hung from an iron ring and Dorian let the flames touch them as well, scattering the bloodstained straps to ash in an instant. 

As suddenly as the fires had burst into existance, Dorian snuffed them out in a show of control that made Halward's mouth sag open. 

“You've....you've gone mad.” The magister whispered, face grayed by the drifting ash. He was edging towards the door in shuffling, unsteady steps. “Completely mad.” 

“Mad or not, I'm leaving. I'll be taking Cole and Rhys with me.” Dorian let his voice go sweet, becoming the honeyed poison of the tevinter court. “It would be unfortunate if you tried to stop us...unfortunate if I had to bring some of your recent activities to the attention of the Magisterium. Blood magic, using a demon,” Dorian gave Cole's thin hand an apologetic squeeze, “to gain influence? Think of the scandal.” 

“Dorian....” The shock on Halward's face looked like sweet victory. “You wouldn't...” 

“Once I wouldn't have had to. Once I had a father who wouldn't have done these things.” Cole's fingers entwined with his own, Dorian felt a surge of confidence. He smiled , kohl lined eyes meeting his father's through the drifting motes of ash. “But by all means, Father....try me.” 

Halward was the first to look away. 


	8. Running and falling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Escaping may be harder than first thought. Cole struggles with his increasing empathy and visibility, Dorian and Felix discuss an uncertain future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do apologize for the delay on this chapter......the last few weeks have been insane. I went from employed, to laid off, to employed again, to business owner in a few days....at this point I feel a bit like my brain is oozing out my ears.  
> So this is a fun break from paperwork and such, nothing like oblivious!Dorian to liven up the day. :)

“Didn't you accuse _me_ of wanting to rampage through the streets with no planning or forethought?”

“This isn't rampaging, it's a hurried tactical retreat.” Dorian swore as he stepped on a jagged cobblestone in the dim light. Handsome as his boots were, they hadn't been made with dashing through gloomy alleys in mind.

They had nothing in the way of supplies. It wouldn't take long for Halward's fear and shock to mature into outrage, and both Dorian and Rhys had agreed they should be long gone by the time that happened. Ideally they would have left with supplies, the fastest horses in the Pavus stables and, at the very least, clothing suitable for this kind of venture. Instead the only thing they had managed was to send a raven from the house rookery with a message for Felix to meet them within Qarinus.

The inn they had designated as a meeting place was well within the shabby maze of the cities 'lower quarter', far away from the infinitely more dangerous mage population. Within the refuse cluttered alleys and soot stained tenements, they attracted more attention than Dorian had expected.

Cole seemed to be the focus of a lot of people's curiosity. Maybe it was his pale hair and skin, or maybe it was his ripped clothing and the livid marks of Medar's cruelties on his throat and shoulders. Either way he earned more than a few sadly resigned glances from passers by. One hulking soparati spat at Dorian as they slunk by, his face flushed with fury and drink and voice thick with outrage. His accusations rung in Dorian's ears long after the spittle had dried on his robes.

An altus was as out of place among the soporati population as a sun-bird among crows; the elite only visited the lower quarters to engage in bloodsports frowned upon in polite society. The stares Dorian earned were full of old fear and a silent resentment that few dared to voice. 

A group of drunken youths tumbled out of a gaming house and Cole startled so badly that Rhys had to grab him by the arm to keep him on his feet. “Are you alright?” The southern mage asked solicitously, and Dorian almost laughed; one look at Cole was all one needed to know he was definitely not 'alright'.

The further they had gotten from the expansive properties of the great houses, the more fretful and disjointed Cole had become. Here, in the filthy alleys that catered to those seeking illegal game halls, cheap pleasure houses or smoke dens, he seemed caught between terror and outright panic.

“Its too loud!” Cole whimpered, hands clenched against his head so hard that his ragged fingernails drew lines of blood on his scalp. “Stories screamed until they sank into the stones. It all hurts but I don't know what's real.....so many voices, to much pain. I'm all wrong. Wrong shape, too here....everything sticks.”

“I should have known this would happen.” Rhys caught Cole's thin hands in his own, his face falling into lines that made him look old and tired. “Your father is a bastard, Dorian. An utter bastard.”

Cole flinched at the anger in Rhys' voice, curling in on himself. _”This is a disaster. It would have been merciful if the magister had just killed him outright, nobody deserves this._ I'm sorry,” Cole added, “I didn't want to die.”

Maker, Cole....no.” Rhys looked stricken, ashamed of the words and shocked that Cole could pluck them from his head with such ease. “I didn't mean....I just don't know how to stop this.”

“I don't think it's supposed to stop,” Cole muttered, eyes going distant as he watched three lash-marked young slaves scuttle past with armloads of laundry. “I'm supposed to know....to do something, become more.....make the pain less. But there's so _much_....Dorian helps.”

“Dorian?” Rhys said in a slightly disbelieving tone, as if Cole had suggested juggling goldfish helped.

“And how do I help?” Dorian put a hand under Cole's chin and lifted his head so he could look him in the face. “Other than being witty, charming and generally amazing of course?”

If Dorian's attempt at humor had any effect on Cole it didn't show. “You're …..brighter than Rhys. Burning, blazing, so brilliant it almost hurts. You make it so loud that the screaming stops.”

“I'm not entirely certain that was complimentary.” Dorian smoothed his fingers over his mustache reflexively, it felt as ragged as he did. “But if I can help, even if it's just by being 'loud', then I'm glad.”

Silently, Dorian cursed his father. No matter how horrific Cole's natural abilities to be unseen and forgotten seemed to Dorian, they were a defense mechanism that Halward's brands had stripped away with thoughtless cruelty. For the first time in his existence, Cole was visible and noticeable to every curious passerby. No wonder he was overwhelmed.

“Thank you,” Cole said softly in a voice that cracked with fatigue. He looked pitifully grateful for Dorian's vocal support and the solid presence of Rhys by his side.

A pair of men with the sunburst sigil of a lower house strolled past, pausing to stare curiously at the odd little group. Dorian felt magic pushing at the shields he had been struggling to maintain around them and pushed back, watching their eyes widen as the warning wash of power threw sparks into the air.

The men hurried away, but the effort had cost Dorian. The world tilted alarmingly, blurring to dark at the edge of his vision in a signature side effect of magic overuse. As gratifying as cowing Halward with an extensive show of force had been, it wasn't the most expedient use of mana. He didn't regret Medar's death though, not for a second.

“We need to keep going.” There was a warning note in Rhys' voice and Dorian looked over to see the men in the starburst cloaks had gone no further than the mouth of the alley, their wariness turning to predatory interest.

Struggling to hold the barrier in place, Dorian poured the last vestiges of his energy into the defenses around Cole as he felt the other mages questing out towards him. “It's not far now....I hope.”

The inn they had arranged to meet Felix at had seen better days. There were faded, flaking friezes along its walls that hinted at a former glory long since fallen into slovenly ruin. The staff was sullen and disinterested, the clientele unlikely to ask questions lest they have to answer some in return. The dim lighting was supplied by smoky rush-tapers rather than mage lights, and the dim atmosphere lent an atmosphere of anonymity that suited the group of exhausted fugitives perfectly.

By the time the bored proprietor had directed them to the suite of rooms Felix had paid for, Dorian could hardly make the stairs without stumbling. The cracked wood siding swum in his vision, rippling with bands of hazy shados that swirled and danced like living things. 

When the door opened, Dorian couldn't hear anything over the dull roar in his ears. Felix was talking, his haggard face creased with concern, but it was just a garble that barely penetrated the creeping fatigue.

“Protect him, please...” Dorian felt the barriers he had so desperately maintained fracture and tear apart, and the distant pain of his knees impacting the worn floor-boards.

Someone was yelling his name, voice shrill and panicked. Cole. Dorian tried to tell him it was alright, but the shadows welled up and swallowed his world down into silence.

________________________________________________________________

 

“I know you have a flair for the dramatic, Dorian.....but this was a little much.” Felix's voice was familiar, but rougher than Dorian remembered.

“Guh,” Dorian replied articulately, grimacing at the throbbing that felt like hammer blows on his brain. 

Someone as clattering glassware about, filling the room with a bitter herbal smell and the metallic tang of lyrium. Cracking his eyes open, Dorian could see Felix, gaunter and more worn than the last time he'd visited, mixing something in a glass.

“What happened?” Dorian managed, wincing at the sunlight streaming through the grimy windows. Hadn't it been evening when they'd got to the inn?

“What happened is that you forgot one of the first lessons they teach in the academies.” Felix shook his head chidingly. “And you one of father's star pupils too. What were you doing to wear yourself out like that?”

“Among other things, I set my father's workroom on fire. It was rather spectacular.”

“Yes.” Cole said unexpectedly, making Dorian jump. “It burned until the stones remembered.”

Felix approached with a glass of something steaming and a smirk plastered across his gaunt face. It was then that Dorian realized that his aching head was cushioned on Cole's rather bony thigh and there were long fingers gently stroking through his hair in a way that felt nicer than it should.

Struggling upright, Dorian knew his face was flushed, a state not helped by Cole's solicitous assistance and enthusiasm.

“You came back!” Cole favored Dorian with a brief smile that lit up his pale face. “You fell, falling too far for me to follow.”

The level of concern in Cole's eyes was almost unnerving, but gratifying at the same time. Dorian couldn't remember anyone ever looking at him like that before; as if he was something precious and valuable.....something loved.

The bitter tisane Felix handed him distracted Dorian as it burned down his throat. The lyrium kindling in his gut and spreading out through his body in a rejuvenating wave of replenished mana. 

“Better?” Felix asked a touch smugly. He'd always had a gift when it came to to potion making; a remarkably common pastime that he excelled at.

“Maker, yes.” The headache eased as the elfroot part of the potion soothed overstressed nerves and tissues. “But couldn't you make it taste even slightly less vile?”

Looking as relieved as Dorian felt, Cole scrambled to his feet. “I should tell Rhys you woke up,” he explained in a rush, tugging at his shirt sleeves and looking almost bashful. “I am very, very glad you came back. I missed hearing you.”

Dorian was still puzzling over Cole's parting comment when the door clicked shut and Felix started laughing.

“That one's a change from your usual, Dor. Don't you generally like them tall, dark and human?” Still chuckling over Dorians nonplussed expression, Felix shrugged. “He's sweet in an odd sort of way I suppose.”

“Oh not you too! Its not like that....”

“Oh? Well you might want to tell your young man that.” Felix ignored Dorian's expressive eye roll. “He seems rather attached.....unless you were wrong in your letter and he is a demon. Of course! All those hours he spent stroking your ridiculous hair and mooning about you was just a very bizarre attempt at possession.” 

“You're hilarious. Utterly hysterical.” Dorian replied dryly. He self consciously tried to straighten his hair. Cole's attentions had left it a hopeless snarl of tangles. “And he's not 'my' young man, in fact, if Rhys is correct, Cole is no kind of man at all.”

“Then what are you doing, Dor?” Worry drove out the teasing humor in Felix's voice. “In your letter you just wanted the boy and the southern mage taken across the border......now you're going with them? You set your father's house on fire?”

“Just his workroom.” Dorian tried for flippancy, but his voice cracked; it was too hard to stay distant in the face of his friend's concern.

Slowly, as Felix settled beside him, the whole story poured out of Dorian like infection from a lanced wound. From the first time he'd seen Cole, wild-eyed and chained, a supposedly mindless, fade-born creature, to the moment he'd faced down Halward over the smoldering ruins of his workroom. He was honest, brutally so, about his own involvement. No matter how reluctant he had been, Dorian couldn't deny that he had been an instrument of his father's cruelty, even if the thought of hurting Cole now made him burn with shame.

“Maker's breath,” Felix said softly when Dorian finally ran out of words. “What are you going to do, Dorian?....where are you going to go?”

“I hadn't really thought that far ahead,” Dorian admitted. “I know Rhys wants to go south into Orlais, chasing a girl I think.”

“So, you're going to follow a renegade mage and a....a spirit who's a former murderer and possibly a demon into an area that's become a roiling mess of political infighting and outright rebellion.?”

“Consider it me bringing civility and hygiene to the unwashed masses.” Dorian smirked to lighten the mood and to allay the fear that Felix's words had brought. “Maybe I'll even introduce them to fashion that doesn't involve untanned hides and burlap.”

“Or maybe their templars will make you and Rhys tranquil and kill your demon-boy on sight.”

Tranquility, the horrible punishment the southerners inflicted on mages with an impunity not seen even in the Magisterium. Even the thought of it made Dorian's blood run cold, and Felix was right, they would kill Cole with no hesitation or mercy. Spirit or demon, it would make little difference. 

“Well,” Dorian said firmly with a great deal more bravado that he felt. “They can certainly try.”


	9. Fears and promises

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian learns about the hardships of travel and Cole confides his fear of being a demon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh look, a business laptop that can double as a mobile writing center. :D  
> And as always, thank you to everyone that has left comments-I promise to try harder to respond to you all. But know that I read and reread every word & it keeps me going. *hugs everyone*

_Be careful my friend._ Felix had whispered against Dorian's ear as they had hugged goodbye. His breath had been hot with the fever that burned in his blood and ravaged his body.

Half of Dorian wanted to cling to his friend, as if that would help him hang on to some scrap of his shattered life. A fragment of of normalcy in a sea of doubt and half formed plans that bordered on madness.

In the few days they had spent together, Felix had hid his illness well. But even the strongest of potions couldn't hide the slight tremble in his hands or that his eyes were fever-bright in the hollows of his now gaunt face. It had hit Dorian like a physical blow; Tevinter needed more men like Felix, not less.

Dorian reined in his mount at the crest of a rocky hill. Behind them, Quinras glowed with hazy mage light, a deceptively beautiful jewel shimmering in the falling dusk. Far below, a small figure on horseback turned and waved. As he raised his hand in answer Dorian swallowed a lump in his throat, he was well and truly on his own now.

"No." Cole murmured against Dorian's shoulder, his voice muffled into the mage's robes. "You aren't alone."

Rhys looked over, his affable face caught between concern and disapproval. He was obviously worried about Cole's growing attachment to Dorian, but so far he had remained tactfully silent despite his obvious trepidation.

"We should keep moving," Rhys' tone was roughly sympathetic. "We've got a lot of ground to cover before we hit the border, it's going to be rough going-even with these beasts."

That had been Felix's final gift. A pair of massive, antlered harts that could travel overland, allowing them to avoid the Imperial roadways and well-traveled trader's routes. The powerful beasts could traverse terrain that would risk shattered legs on even the best of horses, and hold a pace that would founder a lesser beast. They were also very rare and highly prized in the Imperium, well worth their weight in gold. Dorian was still a bit shocked by Felix's generosity.

With a wordless nod, Dorian puled reluctant eyes away from his last glimpse of home and turned his hart towards the untamed wilderness. Cole's long arms came up to wrap around Dorian's middle, fingers tangling in the complicated buckles of his robes. Unsure if he was being comforted, or if Cole was looking for reassurance, Dorian rubbed a thumb over his bony knuckles and was grateful for the silent camaraderie.

Dorian had ridden before, and had foolishly assumed that gave him enough experience to weather this trip. It became obvious within minutes that this was utterly different from the genteel hunts he had attended in the past, populated as they were by overdressed nobles on high bred palfreys.

The harts had an odd,rocking lope that was utterly unlike any gait a horse could produce, and by the time Dorian had figured out best how to sit it, his thighs and knees were chafed raw against the saddle. In the darkness they had little choice but to trust their mounts as they bounded down boulder strewn hillsides and through groves of feathery trees that grew so thickly that they blocked out even the meager starlight.

The dawn brought light, but no relief from the punishing pace. The sun rose to a blistering zenith in a cloudless sky, turning the lushly verdant landscape into a humid misery.

Summer had always been a time of lazy excess for Dorian, as it was for all the Imperium's favored sons and daughters. It was a time to enjoy the shaded garden pools and carefully cultivated grottos, or the expansive library with its enchanted fans that cooled the air as they moved. Sweating in the sun was something that slaves and servants did.

Now Dorian could taste salt on his cracked lips and feel sweat soaking into the folds of his clothing and crawling across his sticky skin. It was unsavory and so abysmally common that it was almost shameful. By the time shadows were lengthening and the harts were stumbling with fatigue, Dorian was mortified by the the state of himself. It wasn't much comfort that Rhys looked as tired and filthy as he did, or that Cole's hair was lank with sweat and his pale skin patchy with sunburn.

When they finally stopped in an old riverbed where overhanging limestone bluffs supplied both shelter and protection, Dorian slid from his mount on jellied legs, every muscle protesting the movement. He only meant to rest for a moment before helping untack the mounts, but the cool stone felt more welcoming than any feather bed and he was asleep between one breath and the next.

When Dorian awoke it was late evening. A small, smokeless fire brightened the dusk and shed soft light on the two harts chewing contentedly at their grain rations. Rhys looked up as Dorian stirred, he'd taken the time to trim his ragged beard neatly against his jaw, exposing the scarred band of flesh on his neck where the magic-inhibiting collar had abraded his skin. All in all he looked far cleaner and more alert than anyone who had ridden for a day and a half had any right to.

A smile ghosted across Rhys' lips as Dorian struggled upright, wincing at every movement. "It'll get better. Give it a week and you wont even be sore anymore, trust me. In the meantime, there's a pond just past the bluff if you want to wash and elfroot salve in the saddlebags if you still ache."

"A _pond_?" Dorian fumed.

"Yes, and if Cole's there please try to convince him to put some elfroot on those burns." Rhys' smile widened as he noticed Dorian's disgusted reluctance. "You were expecting a heated tub? A few slaves to wash your back and rub your.....feet?"

"It would be a start." Dorian huffed, limping in the direction Rhys had indicated with as much dignity as he could muster.

The 'pond' was somewhat better than Dorian has imagined, which didn't take much as he had assumed it would be full of mud and leeches. A small creek had worn away at the limestone until it had hollowed out a deep bowl in the rock and filled it with cool, clear water. A few hardy lotus plants clung in the shallows and swift, silver fish flickered in the shadows of the deeper water.

Stripping off his travel stained robes was glorious, almost worth the indignity of being forced to wash in unscented water that was entirely too cold. After a moment's hesitation, Dorian pulled his robes into the water and rinsed them off in the shallows. They wouldn't dry properly in the humid air, but at least they would be clean.

The shallows at the edge of the pool held the warmth of the sun, but by the time Dorian had waded in up to his thighs the chill was starting to numb his toes. Despite it being a stupid waste of magic, it was becoming more and more tempting to heat the pool to steaming and enjoy the hot water on tired muscles.

“You shouldn't. The fish wouldn't like it.”

Dorian whirled with a yelp of shock, getting a brief glimpse of Cole's hunched form before rocks slid under his feet and consigned him to the flailing indignity of a dunking. By the time Dorian had floundered to the surface, coughing and wiping water from his eyes, Cole was crouched at the water's edge, eyes wide and worried in his thin face.

“I'm sorry, Dorian,” Cole said contritely. “I didn't know you couldn't swim.”

“I can swim excellently, thank you very much.” Dorian shivered and wondered how he was going to leave the water without giving Cole an eyeful. It wasn't that he was body-shy, just the opposite most of the time. There was no shame in flaunting perfection, it only became uncomfortable when Cole was staring with blank, unblinking curiosity. “I'm just unused to bathing with an audience. Do you always skulk around and watch people like that?”

“Yes.” Cole admitted blandly. “You look very different from the mages in the spire. They bathed in the white room that smelled like sage. One of them liked to put his head under the water and pretend he was in the fade, but he never was.”

“Why would you even....just...why?”

“I wanted to understand, to be more.” Cole fidgeted, fingers tugging at loose threads on his shirtsleeves. “They never saw me....I never hurt _them_.”

“Alright....well, it's considered poor manners.” Dorian smiled to take any sting from his words. “Especially when you sneak up on people and almost give them a heart attack.”

“You watched me bathe.” Cole tilted his head inquisitively. “It made you sad.”

The last thing Dorian wanted to think about or remember was finger shaped bruises on Cole's hips, or the little half-moons where fingernails had dug in..... 

“I'm sorry . I'll remember not to scare you.” Cole promised earnestly. He seemed more nervous than Dorian was used to, furtive and almost shy.

Once he was sure Dorian was in no danger, Cole slunk back into the shadows, disappearing into whatever hiding place he had found. Dorian frowned after him, it was strange behavior-even for Cole.

The further they had traveled from the bustling crowds of the city the more Cole had relaxed. Dorian had felt the tension ease out of him in increments as every passing mile took him further from the pain and noise of Qarinus. It was strange for him to be withdrawing now, rather than curling up comfortably by the fire and pestering Rhys with endless questions.

Dorian's concern rather ruined the experience of bathing, and after a few minutes he splashed ashore to drag uncooperative, wet clothing on over still damp skin. Buckles resisted even the best efforts of his water-softened fingers and Dorian vented a stream of tevene curses that would have made a brothel girl blush. Still, it was a relief to be free of the sweat and dust that had accumulated over the ride.

It didn't take long to find Cole. He'd tucked himself into the shelter of a massive boulder and stared hollowly up at Dorian as he approached. With a sigh for the grit and dust that was surely going to adhere to his damp clothing, Dorian settled in beside him, expecting little more than a story of woe pertaining to nugs or rabbits.

“If I'm a demon, you have to kill me.” Cole announced as soon as Dorian sat down. “You have to make them safe.”

Dorian's stomach clenched. Cole had always had a self-destructive streak, but this was something else; there was an edge of fear and desperation to his voice that was raw and frightening.

“Nobody is going to kill you, Cole.” Dorian had a feeling that his reassurance was the wrong thing to say as every muscle in Cole's body went rictus taut. 

“You have to! Rhys is too tangled....guilt and regret. Fear that makes him sharp, I'm too real. It has to be you.”

As Dorian stared, shocked by the sudden outburst, Cole lowered his head, palms up in a gesture of silent, submissive entreaty that made Dorian want to be sick. It was a motion Cole had learned might earn him some scrap of mercy from Halward.

“You could bind me,” Cole pleaded. “I wouldn't mind if it was you. I could obey and be safe. You wouldn't let me hurt people!”

“That's not happening either!” Not knowing what else to do, Dorian opened his arms, not surprised when Cole burrowed into his embrace. “Now what started all this?”

Cole didn't reply for several minutes. Long enough for Dorian to be glad for the chill of his wet robes. Whatever he was, Cole had the body of a warm young man and Dorian was suddenly aware of just how nice he felt against him.

“Rhys can hear the songs again. Soft, sibilant, almost silent but growing.” Cole said against Dorian's neck, breath warming the skin there. “He can pull at me. I forgot, but he can make me remember..... cautious, calling, searching for a name that is what I am.”

“I think he's just trying to help. If you were a demon, you'd think Rhys would know, he is a spirit medium after all.”

“What if he's wrong?” Cole asked petulantly. “I can't remember, and Rhys thought I was real before.”

“And what if he's right?” Dorian soothed. “What if you are exactly what Rhys thinks you are? A benevolent spirit who is simply a victim of circumstance.”

Cole made a noncommittal noise and Dorian wasn't sure he had convinced him at all, or himself for that matter. It wouldn't really help if Rhys was right, not if what he had told Dorian about the murders in the white spire was true. If Cole _was_ a demon, those killings were in his nature and he was a danger to them all; if he was a spirit then they were an atrocity that bordered on insanity. What kind of spirit wore human flesh and killed with such savagery?

“A monster.” Cole answered the unspoken thought and Dorian felt the heat of tears against his skin as Cole shuddered with a raw terror and grief that was almost hysterical. 

There were no words that could ease Cole's pain, so Dorian simply wrapped his arms around his slim body and let him cry himself into an exhausted stupor. 

It's going to be alright,” Dorian whispered against tangled hair, carefully making his mind blank so Cole couldn't catch him in a lie. “It's all going to be alright.”


	10. Memories and compassion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rhys attempts to call forth Cole's true nature, waking memories that were best forgotten.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise, another chapter appears!  
> Next chapter will be from Cole's point of view & will feature a guest star from Inquisition. :)

By the fourth day of travel the group had settled into a slightly less frantic routine. They still rode hard, pushing the harts from dawn until dusk. But, as Rhys had said, Dorian wasn't as sore as he had been-although he wasn't sure his legs were ever going to close properly either. 

They made camp earlier than usual, casting a wary eye towards the darkening clouds and rising wind. It was a lonely location, the only sign of life was an ancient ruin on a distant hill, and the occasional scrap of rusted armor protruding from the grass to mark some forgotten battle. The veil was abnormally thin here, allowing curious spirits to press close, their whispers lost in the hiss of the wind. 

Cole's behavior continued to worry Dorian. At face value he seemed improved, although he remained uncharacteristically quiet and withdrawn, his perpetually sad face chalk pale beneath wary, red-rimmed eyes. He never ate, which didn't seem to effect him, and on the rare occasions that he slept it was brief and restless.

If Dorian hadn't seen Cole attack Halward, he would have thought Rhys' tales of murdered mages in the white spire to be little more than baseless speculation. It was hard to reconcile that side of Cole with the inherently gentle creature he could be. 

Dorian was haunted by Cole's questions of a few days before. What would he do if Cole was a demon rather than the tormented young man he appeared to be, or the spirit that Rhys insisted he was? Could he honestly raise a hand against him, even in self defense? Dorian tried to imagine calling fire down on Cole's lanky, scarred body and shuddered, gorge rising as the thought painted a too-vivid picture in his mind.

Curled up against Dorian's side, Cole whimpered and twitched awake, panicked eyes reflecting the firelight that brightened the camp. Whatever nightmares plagued him were hopefully his own, and not the result of Dorian's overactive imagination.

Rhys watched them both pensively for several minutes before calling Cole over in a gentle, resigned voice. 

“Cole, can you come here please.”

Dorian marveled at how calm Rhys sounded, how in control. The veil was thin here, the perfect conditions for a spirit medium, and Dorian could feel the power swirling and eddying around him like a tide. It was obvious Cole could feel it as well: there was naked fear on his face and he slunk to Rhys like he was being hauled to the gallows. It was a testament to how much he trusted his friend that he went to him at all.

“This wont hurt,” Rhys soothed as he settled Cole next to him. “All I'm going to do is help you remember what you are.”

Cole didn't speak, but he looked up at Rhys with such complete trust that Dorian almost had to look away. He'd thought that way about his father once, and something that absolutely wasn't jealousy soured in his gut.

It started as a slow pulse, so subtle that Dorian hardly noticed it. There was none of the showy pretension a maleficar would have insisted on, just Rhys' hand resting lightly on Cole's shoulder, his face creased in concentration.

Spirits pressed at the veil, drawn by the call of Rhys' magic. Some, cautious and curious, reached out to Cole, shimmering in the air like storm-tossed rags. Others raged at the barrier, desperate to cross. The call tugged at them, tugged at Dorian until he was caught up in it, as helpless as a castaway in a restless ocean. He could see and feel the change as Cole turned to look at him, body alight with flickering fade light. He could feel a ripple of fractured, dissonant harmonies that echoed with loss and possibility.

There was a snap like a dislocated limb slipping back into place and Dorian felt rather than heard Rhys' exclamation of surprise. Something bright and sad, Cole, Dorian realized, wailed into his mind with a visceral grief that tore away reality and threw it into chaos.

_There was something in the dark._

_Everything hurt. His fingers were soft, broken things, torn to nailess rags from clawing at the the door and banging against the stone walls. He'd sucked on them at first, the copper tang of his blood heavy on his dry tongue. He couldn't do that anymore, his throat was too swollen and cracked to swallow._

_Each breath seemed to take more effort than it was worth. Sometimes, when he drifted in something that was more than sleep he just ......stopped. Slipped away. It made the thing in the dark cry, made it push at him until he dragged air into tired lungs. Made him fight for a few more hours._

_Sometimes he could hear it outside the cell, trying to make the templars remember. It cried in the forbidden parts of his mind, the parts that were filthy and wrong; the templars couldn't....wouldn't listen. Maybe they just didn't care. Either way, he was glad: the thing in the dark was kind, he didn't want the templars to hurt it._

_His stomach was a ball of pain. There were times he wondered if the rats had chewed into his guts, razor teeth tearing through the soft parts of him, hollowing him out. He wondered if they ate all the bad parts, maybe the templars would come back. But then he remember cruel words and crueler hands, the tang of blood and worse and hoped the rats would stay. Keep chewing until he wasn't him anymore._

_He imagined his father came, huge in his hallucination and raging words full of spite. He spat his hate and his bile until a knife grew from his chest and flies nestled in his eyes. Then it was Bunny, silent and accusing until the thing in the dark sang her away._

_The weaker he got, the more desperate the thing in the dark became. He wanted to tell it he was sorry, sorry he wasn't stronger, sorry it hadn't found someone better. Someone who wasn't broken and filthy and wrong._

_He was cold and so far, far away when it took his hand. He didn't even know it had hands until its fingers brushed his, cradling his wasted, broken fingers as if they were somehow precious. It curled up next to him on the filthy stone, larger than it had been when he first saw it._

_“I'm s..sorry.” It's words were real, rough and half formed, but real._

_Every movement took so much effort, as if his strength was scattering like dust into the stale air. “Thank you,” he managed to whisper, a dry, broken rasp that sighed past his split lips and did not return. He was grateful, so grateful. He wanted to tell it so much, but all he could manage was a feeble twitch of one ruined finger against its hand and then everything just....stopped. The world fell away. No more pain, no more hurt and shame. No more cell, no more rats. Just his own face staring back at him as he died._

_There was something in the dark._

_Cole felt wrong. His fingers remembered a pain that wasn't his, a hurt that belonged to the thing in the dark. His flesh howled with it, but he was whole...not bruised, broken, battered._

_He crawled as far away from it as he could. The thing in the dark was failure, grief, guilt and sorrow. He could hear the rats, gleeful at their feast, and pressed his hands over his ears so he couldn't hear the rasp of teeth on bone or the little wet noises when they found the soft parts._

_The memories were overwhelming. Overlapped. He could remember drifting, finding the thin places where the sisters would call and sing him through. He could help the hurting there, heal the helpless, then return, slip back into the old song. The thing in the dark had called him, but he couldn't heal, couldn't help...helpless...so he stayed._

_The song was so far away. Faded and fading. He was anchored, not free to follow. It hurt to remember, so he pressed unfamiliar hands against his new face and whispered 'forget' until it stopped. Until everything that was sharp went away, and there was no failure, no thing in the dark. No compassion._

_The cell smelled of rank death, sharp and fetid, when the templar came. His hands were shaking, the keys clattering against the lock as he fought with the door. Cole crouched in the corner, the templars had hurt him before...hard hands on his neck, a mailed fist pushing his face against the floor....what would they want of him now?_

_When the door swung open, Cole shrunk away from the light, waiting for a rough hand to fist in his hair and drag him to his feet....but it wasn't him the templar was staring at. It was the other thing, the thing Cole couldn't bring himself to look at because it made something hurt inside him. Rocking onto the balls of his feet, he watched the templar gag and turn to throw up against the wall, back heaving as he wretched until tears streaked his swarthy face._

_The templar was praying, words that begged forgiveness tumbled out of his mouth. Pleas to the Maker, apologies so garbled that Cole wondered if the Maker understood any of it._

_There was the sound of hard boots on stone and another templar was there, eyes scanning the cell. Cole froze, but that hard gaze just slid past him, settling instead on the thing he couldn't look at before dismissing it with a shrug._

_“Saved us the trouble of bothering with a harrowing for this one.” The slap of a hand on the first templar's shoulder. “Don't worry, things like this happen from time to time. I'll just burn his records, nobody needs to know. Rats have been at him, I'll have a tranquil throw what's left in one of the old midden holes. The boy was useless anyway, so it's no great loss.”_

_The templars talked quietly before they left together up the hallway, one white faced and shaking, the other almost smug. They left the cell door ajar and Cole slunk out after them, nervous and exposed. One turned at the creak of the door, but simply shrugged and turned away, eyes slipping past the ragged young man crouched in the hallway._

_Cole wasn't sure how long he ran. Through twisting hallways and endless forgotten chambers, his footsteps stirring up decades of dust. Finally, in a room that dropped away into flooded depths he stopped, panting for breath and blinking through the sweat that streaked his grimy face._

_Nobody had seen him. The templars had looked past him, so had the tranquil he had seen in the hallway. Her blank eyes had slid over him like water past a stone. Like he wasn't even there...._

_Cupping up stale water, Cole rinsed the worst of the dirt from his face. He stared into the water once it settled, blinking at the hazy reflection it showed. “”What...” he whispered, soft voice echoing in the silence. “What am I?”_

“Compassion.” Rhys said, face lighting up with elation even as Cole whimpered and backed away. “You're Compassion.”

“No, No...I” Cole shuddered, hands digging against his scalp even as Rhys' magic dissipated. “I cant, I...”

Dorian's head was ringing with the memories Cole had made himself forget; the sickening death of the boy in the cell and his own wrenching failure. The agony that had dragged him through the veil, so desperate to help that he had forged his own human body to continue a life that had ended so cruelly.

“Cole...” Dorian reached out, but Cole yelped and twisted away from his touch, eyes wild and panicked.

“It's all wrong....torn, twisted and tainted. I can't be me, can't...” Cole shook his head and half shrieked when Rhy's put a hand on his shoulder. “Don't!! You're catching, too loud.... _blood in the cells, Maker, that's seven dead._ I can't be this!”

As the first fat spatters of rain rattled over the camp, Cole tensed, eyes so far from sane it made Dorian wince. Staring at Cole's pale, tear streaked face, Dorian realized with an epiphany as bright as the lightning on the horizon that he cared for this strange, wayward spirit far more than he should. And he was losing him...like he'd lost everything else.

“Please...” Dorian whispered, almost hating himself for the desperation in his voice. “Don't...”

It made Cole hesitate, sad eyes going wide and shocked. But he still turned, long limbs flung into desperate motion, fleeing from his own existence. Between one step and the next he was gone in a flash of smoke, leaving Rhys and Dorian to stare silently at the place he'd been.

Desperate, Dorian spun, eyes searching for a flash of pale skin in the dark, a glimpse of blonde hair against the dark forest. But there was nothing but the sound of the rain and the low growl of approaching thunder.

“Maker forgive me,” Rhys said, stricken. “I'm so sorry, Cole.” The southern mage laced his fingers over his face and Dorian could see the wetness of tears on his fingers.

Dorian was too numb to join Rhys in his self flagellating grief. Cole's absence hung between them like an unspoken accusation. If only Rhys hadn't pushed to discover Cole's true nature.....if only Dorian hadn't aided his father in using and tormenting a creature created by kindness. If only....

Long after Rhys had rolled himself into his blankets, burying his misery in restless dreams, Dorian stared into the night. Every crackle in the underbrush could be Cole's tentative footsteps, every shadow could be him, shyly watching Dorian with eternally sad eyes....

“Please come back,” Dorian whispered into the relentless slap of wind-driven rain, letting the storm tear the words from his mouth; ashamed to be voicing them at all. “Come back to me.”


	11. Dreamers and wolves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fleeing from his newly awoken identity, Cole meets Solas~a mage who's unique perspective on the fade allows him to help the confused spirit accept his own existence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These two refused to shut up, hence this chapter tended to witter a bit. :D

All Cole could feel was pain.

Rhys' pain was dark, blue-black like a bruise that settled deep in his being. It was guilt and resentment,edged in bright loneliness. He missed Evangeline so much it was like a constant ache, like the raw abrasion of the collar he had worn. 

Dorian was brighter. His pain was a scream that burned whatever it touched. A maelstrom of self-loathing and razor sharp grief. There was something else as well, a kind of growing,guilty, brittle need that Cole didn't wholly understand. He'd felt a muddied, angry version of that need before, it always meant blood and pain; bruises that made Dorian angry.

It was too loud, like all their hurts were howling into his head. Visceral memories collided with the sudden understanding of who... _what_ he was, and all Cole wanted to do was run. His body turned to flee, but the part of him that remembered reached out for the old song, striving to slip across even though he was wrong for that now. He felt a flash of panic from Dorian, then the veil was there to blot out everything but the ancient songs of the fade.

Cole had once told Rhys that he felt like he was sinking, falling slowly into an inescapable blackness. It wasn't like sinking now. The blackness slammed into him, leaving him torn, tangled and utterly lost. He was all wrong, tumbled over in the void as his back lit up in a white hot flare of pain, the brands dragging at his physical body like chains. Every horrible, painstakingly etched word threatened to tear him apart; he was hooked like a fish and drawn thrashing back into the world. 

For a confusing few seconds,Cole struggled with being abruptly physical again. His feet skidded on wet stone and he was falling, so numb with shock and pain that he barely registered the impact that flung him from one blackness to another.

It was raining, the downpour counterpoint to thunder that rolled through the skies. Dazed, Cole blinked water from his eyes and carefully started to move. Slow, cautious movements at first, a technique he'd learned in the aftermath of Da's drunken rampages.....except he hadn't. That wasn't him, that was the real Cole. The Cole he hadn't been able to save.....

Whimpering, Cole hauled himself to his feet. Grateful for the pain of a bruised, bloody face, scraped knees and one wrist that wouldn't bend right. Each bit of damage overwhelmed the memories, drowned them in selfish hurt. 

Cole wasn't sure where he was, or even how far his failed attempt at fade-travel had thrown him. He could feel Rhys and Dorian as a distant, foggy ache; so far away that the campfire was a pinpoint of light no brighter than a star. It would be so easy to follow that distant glow, so tempting that his feet took several steps in that direction even though Cole hadn't told them to. 

He could go back...Rhys wouldn't blame Cole for running. He never blamed him for anything, even when he should. If he went back, Rhys would protect him like he always had. He could explore the _want_ he felt in Dorian, the confusing brilliance that the mage buried in tangles of guilt. _Or he could forget again and hurt them both._ That thought alone made Cole turn away from the promise of comfort and friendship, made him force his legs into a shaky lope that took him further and further away from anything familiar.

The rain soaked ruins sparked with memories. Old armor, half buried in the mud, remembered calloused hands that bent the metal and a nervous apprentice who polished it in a tub filled with sand. There were living things among the stones as well, a nug chattered its irritation over a flooded burrow, spiders larger than Cole's head worked silently at scattered meat chunks.

Crouching in the shelter of an ancient wall, Cole rested his head on his knees. His whole body ached, new injuries warring with the half-healed remains of Halward's brutality. The damp and cold seemed to seep into his skin, it made him want to sleep even though he knew he didn't have to anymore. Numbly he wondered if he would just stop, like Cole...the real Cole, had. 

It would hurt Rhys if he died....Dorian too, Cole thought. It was that realization that drove him slowly to his feet in search of shelter. He had already caused enough pain. 

The top part of whatever the ruin had once been was a scattering of tumbled stone. Each overgrown piece remembered what it had been, retaining memories of the sky even as they returned to the ground. An old staircase sank into the dark like a mouth and Cole managed about three steps down before the old fears returned. 

Each shivering step risked being back in a cell.....risked being cut, burned, bled and left to die in the dark. Cole made the rest of the descent in a clumsy rush, cold numbed feet scraping against the stone. A disturbed spider gave him what Cole could only assume was a reproachful glance before trundling away with what looked like a rabbit haunch in its jaws.

“Sorry.” Cole murmured after the disturbed arachnid, then froze as he realized he wasn't alone.

There was someone else in the ruin. Cole hadn't heard them at first because their mind was quiet, serene and deep like water at the bottom of a well. There were no little roiling hurts like the blister on Dorian's toes to warn him, just a carefully maintained blankness. 

Several torches flared into light at the same time, spreading a flickering light through the underground chamber and, as Cole tensed, an elvhen man sat up smoothly from where he had been lying on a somewhat ratty blanket.

Dropping into a defensive crouch, Cole wished he still had his knife. The strange elf was looking at him in a way that made Cole feel he could see all the secret parts of him, like he could see the truth of him with a simple stare. Instinctively, Cole tried to push that regard away, to become hidden and forgotten, but his back flared with warning pain and he remained the uncomfortable center of attention.

“Hello,” The elf greeted in a calm, soothing voice, as if he could sense Cole's fear and tension. “Are you lost?”

“I....I don't think so.” That wasn't entirely true, Cole thought. He knew he was in Tevinter, but he didn't know where _here_ was. “I was with Rhys and Dorian...but I ran until I was falling. I might be lost....I don't know.”

“Rhys and Dorian,” The elf repeated the names carefully. “Were they holding you against your will?”

“No. They hold me sometimes though. Strong, soft, they stabilize then make me safe.”

“I see. Then it was not them that hurt you?”

“Dorian did. He wanted to make his father love him, but it made him ache. I want him to stop carrying the guilt, but I don't know how to help.” The elf's eyebrows were creeping higher on his forehead, the same kind of expression Rhys got when Cole had said something with his mouth before his mind thought it was a good idea. “Oh.” Cole added lamely, realizing that the elf had probably been asking about the blood that was drying on his face and knees. “I fell out of the fade.”

There was no response to that except for a long, measuring look that was starting to make Cole uncomfortable. “How is it that you have formed a physical body?”

There seemed to be only curiosity on the elf's face, but the question made Cole shrink back. The magister had asked the same questions, first with words and then with a blade and burning. He hadn't remembered then and didn't want to now...it was still too new, too raw. 

“I apologize, Compassion, I..”

“Cole.”

“Pardon?”

“I am Cole. Compassion was my name from before, then I changed. I am not what I was.”

“Cole then.” The elf smiled and Cole could sense his honest acceptance. When he introduced himself as Solas there was another name that flitted through his mind, as gray and ephemeral as a wisp of old smoke. Maybe that was why he understood, Cole thought. He had changed too, the old name didn't fit anymore.

Solas talked about other spirits he had met, explaining that he liked to dream in old places to see the history played out in the fade, but it wasn't until he admitted to feeding the spiders that Cole finally relaxed. He could feel the creatures at the edge of his perception, little sated minds that were nervous of the storm and glad for the quiet stranger who brought them meat.

Edging closer into the glow of the torches, Cole winced as the movement reminded his body that it was still recovering from months of captivity and it didn't appreciate the night's activities.

“I have some healing magics,” Solas offered gently, noticing Cole's discomfort and extending a fine-boned hand. “If you would allow me to help.”

Cole was almost shocked by the offer. Few mages had such abilities, and they were never wasted on the undeserving. He should suggest Solas heal someone else, someone who needed help......but the pain of his own body was so _loud._

Solas had folded his legs beneath him in a posture that looked both comfortable and dignified. When Cole attempted the same thing he suspected he looked more like a collection of tangled twigs. The mage's hand was feather light on his shoulder, fingers glowing gold as a sunrise over water. 

The carefully maintained blankness of Solas' mind slipped and Cole could feel the shock and outrage as the elf's spell uncovered layers of damage; the legacies of Halward's cruelty stamped in badly healed bone, in tissue and muscle abused beyond natural repair. The magic sank into Cole like water into dry earth, correcting and healing until it ran dry and Cole was left gasping with the shock of it. 

It was like a great weight had been lifted. So many little pains that Cole hadn't even been consciously aware of faded into nothing, and all he could do was hang his head and breathe, vaguely aware that Solas had withdrawn to give him some privacy. 

“Thank you...” Cole managed, surprised when even the motion of turning his head didn't hurt. 

“You are very welcome. I only wish I were able to do something about that....atrocity on your back.” Solas' voice was mild, but Cole could hear something snarling and angry behind his words. A predator that raised its head and showed teeth in silent, thwarted fury. “Whoever created that did so with old magic, it is beyond any healing spells I am aware of.”

Cole nodded in acceptance. It was disappointing, but expected. The magister had been meticulous in his work, he would not have put hours of effort into a creation that could simply be healed. Cole shivered in involuntary reaction at the sharp memory of that day. The magister's cold, callous cruelty had hurt almost as much as the words he etched with glowing metal. _'You see,'_ he had said with a casual smile at Dorian who was white lipped and sick at the smell of burning flesh. _'This will make it useful, safe. No different than muzzling a fighting dog when it's not in the ring.'_

It was only Solas' aghast expression that made Cole understand he'd spoken out loud. Rhys always sounded resigned when he reminded Cole that everything he thought didn't have to be spoken, but it was hard when the memories were so loud. 

“I am loathe to offer this,” Solas said after a long moment of silence. “But if you wish, I could help you ....return home.”

What was home? Cole wondered. Was it the old house, the one the real Cole had remembered. A place where bad memories sank into the wood like blood, singing a dirge of tragedy and broken lives. He didn't want to go there, or any of the other places that might be called home....the spire or the magister's big house.

“Would you prefer to return to the fade, Cole?”

Oh. _That_ home. “I don't fit there anymore. The words make me too real and nothing makes sense, I can't fly, only fall.”

Solas was quiet, and Cole reached out with the part of his mind that could feel; it was easier to hear now that his own body wasn't so loud with its own pain. Solas wasn't blank,not walled off like Cole had first thought, his mind was subtle, soft and controlled. Thoughts bleeding through like sap from an old tree. _”Loneliness. Regret. He's unique, in all my travels I have never met a spirit who could manifest both free will and a physical form. What's been done to him is an abomination.....I could make it quick, gentle and painless. If the body died, the spirit could return to the fade, free from the cruelty of men.”_

It was tempting. It had hurt the real Cole to die, but this would be easier....just let go and be what he had been before. A kind thing, free to fly, to forget.....”No. I want to stay.”

“I am glad.” Cole could sense rather than see Solas' relief. “You have chosen a difficult path, but I am relieved that you have decided to walk it.”

“Rhys said we can't travel on paths,” Cole said, confused. “Dorian's father might know to look for us there.”

“Of course.” Solas agreed, mouth twitching into a smile that threatened to spread over his somber face. “My mistake.”

_____________________________________________________________________________

 

When the dawn broke in a glory of post-storm purple and gold, Solas slipped back into his dreams of ancient battles, and Cole explored the ruins where those long-ago warriors fought. 

The spiders have all but disappeared into dusty cracks and crevices, Cole wonders if they dream of memories as well. He finds a dagger tangled in weeds near a forgotten well, but the blade flakes away to rust in his fingers; it remembered being sharp and bright, but the metal had forgotten how to be a knife. It was like he had been, before Rhys had made him remember what he was.

Cole could feel Solas wake, slipping back from the fade full of loss and old regret. He can walk in both places, but he is lighter there; bright and curious. 

“Would you stay in the fade if you could?” Cole asked when Solas found him, sitting on a crumbling wall, idly swinging his legs over the edge.

“It would be tempting. Spirits are honest company, whatever their nature they lack the duplicity of the mortal races.”

Cole can hear the silent question as Solas sits beside him. It's a want, but not the same as what he can hear in Dorian. This is hurt, haunted and hungry. The sheer lonely longing of it is almost worse than pain because Cole _knows_ he could help. He could be what Solas wants, a spirit that could walk outside of the fade, a companion to teach and love......

“Will you find your friends again?” There was disapproval in Solas' voice, but acceptance as well. Resignation.

“Yes. I'm sorry.” Cole tucked his legs up to his chest, feeling inexplicably guilty. 

“Don't be. I am glad to have met you.” Solas hesitated, “and if there is anything else you would like to know...”

“Oh, yes. _Thank you!_ ” Cole interrupted, forgetting that Dorian kept telling him it was rude to do so. “Sometimes I ask questions that Rhys wont answer....Dorian pretends he didn't hear, even when he did.”

“I...see.” Solas smiles as he shakes his head and sighs, but Cole can feel the subtle easing of the knot inside him. The twined threads of loneliness and solitude fall slack, and for just a moment he can breathe and forget. “Very well. Then for however long you wish to stay, I will happily answer what I can.”


	12. Hearts and minds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cole reunites with his friends and Dorian struggles with his growing attraction to the spirit.

“I had rather hoped you would have questions about the fade.” Solas rubbed long fingers over his forehead. “I am not entirely certain that I am the right person to assist with this problem.”

Cole blinked slowly, swinging his legs to a rhythm he hadn't even been aware of before. He had hoped that Solas would be able to explain the want he had felt in Dorian. “But I don't understand.....It's new, it doesn't know what to be yet.”

“Then I would suggest you talk to the young mage about it.” Solas finished rolling his blankets and tied them tightly with a leather thong. “I have little experience in such matters.”

“Regret. Old, but aching. _It could have been so different._ ” Could could feel Solas' discomfort like a trickle of ice against his skin. “I'm sorry.”

“Do not apologize for caring, Cole. But that is an old wound, it is as healed as it ever will be.” Solas set his pack down and leaned against a tumble of stone, his eyes curious. “Is something bothering you?”

Cole reached out for the distant flicker that he knew was Rhys and Dorian. They were far away, but he could still feel them: a bright flare of grief, and a deep, black guilt that pulled at his being. Solas had taught him that, how to listen to the songs and let them show him where to go instead of fighting against it until everything became drowned in sharp pain. “I don't want to hurt them.” Cole finally said.

“Then do not. It is that simple.” Solas replied solemnly. “Violence is a choice, not a compulsion.”

Swinging one leg with a bit more force, Cole concentrated on the rough scrape of stone against his skin. “You could come with me, then you could make them safe.”

“I cannot.” Solas' voice wasn't without regret. “My path leads me in another direction.”

Cole stayed silent as Solas slung his pack over his shoulder. He leaned on his staff as if he relied on it for strength as well as defense. The elf had slept for a long time in the ruins, but Cole thought he still looked worn and exhausted. Pressing at Solas' mind revealed nothing beyond the tight, blank walls he erected around his thoughts.

“Do you know which direction you are going in?”

“Yes,”Cole replied noncommittally. As Solas raised one eyebrow expectantly he realized that he was expected to elaborate. “That way,” he added, pointing south. 

Solas nodded slowly, apparently satisfied with the vague directions. “Be careful in your travels....and know that whatever may happen, I am very glad to have met you, Cole.”

As Solas moved away down the faint animal track that led away from the ruins, Cole had to dig his fingers into the stone to stop himself from following. The thought of being left here alone was more frightening than he had expected. Tucking his legs up against his chest, Cole pressed his face against his knees, squeezing his eyes shut and wishing desperately that he was already safely back with Rhys and Dorian.

___________________________________________________________________________

“How can you just keep moving like nothing happened?” Dorian flung his packs onto the ground and stared resentfully at Rhys. “Cole could be lost, or hurt...”

“Or in the fade, or Par Vollen for all I know.” Rhys rested his forehead against the grey-furred neck of his hart, pushing its muzzle away when it turned to lip at his hair. “I don't know, Maker.....I just don't know what else to do. All I can do is hope he finds his way back.”

“Can't you look for him, isn't that what you spirit mediums are good for?”

“I've never been able to feel Cole as anything other that human.” Rhys sighed and scrubbed a sleeve across his eyes. “If I'd known what he was I would never have brought him north in the first place.”

Dorian finished saddling his mount in silence. As much as he loathed to admit it, Rhys was right. If they were being pursued, staying in one place was a surefire way to get hauled back to Quinras in chains. That rationale didn't make mounting up feel any less like a betrayal, and didn't stop Dorian from looking over his shoulder constantly, hoping against hope that Cole would be following. 

They made poor time over rough terrain the first day. Dorian almost welcomed the bruises and discomforts of travel, the pain eased the guilt that balled inside him like lead. 

Camp was a silent affair. Rhys heaped the fire far higher than they usually dared, and even though Dorian knew it turned their location into a giant beacon, he didn't have the heart to contest the decision. If anyone tracking them could see the blaze, then maybe it meant Cole could as well.

“Cole followed us for days before I even realized he was there.” Rhys spoke softly, eyes fixed on the flames. “Even when I told him to go back to the Spire, he followed us all the way across the desert and into Adamant.”

Dorian nodded, not trusting himself to speak. The rest of the night passed in silence, fading slowly into a foggy dawn that sapped their spirits even further. Even the harts seemed tense and distant, snorting at shadows and shying at mist shrouded stumps.

They were part way across a shallow river when Dorian heard a low thrum like birds taking flight. The whir terminated with a wet thunk and Dorian's hart bawled, bucking into panicked flight as a grey-fletched arrow buried itself in its flank. Another struck just behind the shoulder, missing Dorian's leg by inches and driving the hart to its knees in the shallow water. 

Tumbling from the saddle, Dorian pulled his staff free from its bindings as the hart collapsed. Flinging up a wall of fire in the general direction the shots had come from, Dorian heard a shriek of pain and the next arrow missed by several feet. 

Rhys swung down off his mount, reining it in a tight circle around him, staring grimly at the figures emerging from the trees.

They weren't bandits. Dorian could tell that in seconds. They moved too well, with a kind of unity that no ragged band of criminals could attain. Private military then, or mercenaries.

“Altus Dorian Pavus?” One called out, confirming Dorian's suspicions. Bandits didn't generally know names. “We've orders not to kill you, so make this easy and come quietly.”

“You know,” Dorian called back, hysteria lending an edge of cheerful bravado to his voice. “I'm not sure I'm willing to do that. What assurance do I have that you wont harm my friend?”

“None.” Was the answer. “The slave dies here, as does your demon catamite, wherever it is. You will be returned to your father, in what condition is entirely your choice.”

The speaker was a square block of a man, iron haired and grim. His eyes held neither sympathy or mercy. He moved with the easy confidence of a man used to success and instant obedience. 

“Dorian,” Rhys hissed, pointing his staff at one of the circling mercenaries. “Catch.”

The arc of lighting shocked an exclamation out of one of the men an instant before it stopped his heart. Dorian reached out and his magic caught the body before it even fell. The surge of power was familiar and glorious, Dorian couldn't help but grin as the spell took root in still-smoldering dead flesh and turned the corpse on its former companions. And then it was chaos.

Dorian dodged a blade, burned arrows from the air. Another mercenary died and floundered back to his feet, spilling blood before being bludgeoned into a twitching wreck, body too shattered to sustain even with necromantic abilities.

Barriers flickered and died, Rhys faltered and the mercenary captain raised his sword with grim satisfaction. Dorian saw how the blow would fall and knew there was no spell fast enough to stop it, he didn't even have time to yell a warning.

As the blade reached its apex, hanging for a moment before beginning the downswing that would end Rhys' life, Cole barreled into the mercenary captain hard enough to fling them both off their feet. The impact spun the man's sword from his grip and Rhys quickly froze it to the ground before he could recover it.

There was a moment of shocked silence on both sides. Despite the danger and threat of imminent death, Dorian couldn't deny the relief that flooded through him. Cole was sweaty and panting,liberally streaked in mud, dead leaves and bits of plant life. Honestly, he looked like he'd been floundering cross-country with absolutely no regard for himself or his clothing. Dorian didn't think he'd ever seen anything as beautiful. 

“And this would be the demon, I assume.” The mercenary eyed Cole with stony eyes and a curled lip, drawing a curved knife from a sheath at his belt. “Kill the slave,” he barked at the scattered remains of his command. “I would like to assure Lord Pavus that I've sent his creature back where it belongs.”

“I'm not _his_ ,” Cole seethed. More fury in his voice than Dorian had ever heard before. “I wont let you hurt Rhys!”

Rhys was gaping at Cole and barely managed to get a barrier up in time as an arrow meant for his throat deflected up. He flung a wave of spirit energy at the bowman who went down soundlessly in the long grass.

The mercenary captain slashed at Cole, keeping him moving backwards. The spirit was fast, but unarmed and obviously outmatched. He ducked a jab that missed his left eye by a half inch, leaping forward to grapple for the knife despite Dorian's warning cry. 

If Cole had grabbed for the mercenary's wrists in an attempt to disarm him, Dorian had little doubt the man would have gutted him in an instant. Instead he wrapped long fingers around the blade itself, jerking sharply down and forward, slicing his palms but tearing the dagger from the startled captain's grip. The man still looked surprised when Cole drove the knife into his throat so hard the last few inches of bloody metal severed his spine.

Seeing their leader fall broke the resolve of the remaining band. Reduced to only a few men, they flung down their weapons and fled, leaving their dead scattered across the ambush site. 

Dorian hesitated as they dashed into the trees, fingers welling with power as he considered ending them before they could report their failure to Halward. Cole stared after them, crouched and tense, dagger held loosely in bloody fingers as if waiting for Dorian's decision. It was a sobering thought.

“Maker...” Rhys muttered, staring around at the devastation. He was pale, swallowing convulsively as he looked around at the bodies who had been merely targets in the heat of battle. He visibly shook off his disgust before pulling Cole to his feet and into a fierce hug, only releasing him to frown in concern at the spirit's bloody hands. “Oh, Cole. What have you done to yourself?”

“He was going to kill you.” Cole said defensively. “He wanted to take Dorian back to his father, he hoped he would fight so he could hurt him first. _Arrogant bastard, we get paid the same as long as we don't mark his face._ I wanted to stop him.”

“The sentiment is very much appreciated, only please be more careful in the future. I have no idea how you didn't lose fingers with that little stunt.” Dorian buried his concern and relief in casual humor. 

“I don't suppose anyone saw where my hart went?” Rhys sounded a bit plaintive. “I had some of those lyrium potions Felix made in my saddlebags, and I could really use one about now.”

“That way.” Cole said unexpectedly, pointing absently with his new dagger. “He was afraid of the blood and the noise. It was easier to run....he's still afraid, but he likes the blackberries more.”

It took every ounce of self-restraint Dorian possessed to walk away as Rhys headed into the thick undergrowth in search of his mount. He wanted nothing more than to go to Cole, to map his long, lanky body and run his fingers through his ridiculous tangle of hair, if only to reassure himself that the spirit was even there: real and unharmed. 

“You can if you want.” Cole looked timidly pleased by the concept and Dorian fled, horrified by his own mental indiscretion. 

Retrieving any salvageable supplies from the saddlebags of his dead hart gave Dorian an excuse to gather his thoughts away from the distraction that was Cole. His attraction was a product of his guilt, Dorian reasoned, a desire to somehow make up for the atrocities he had participated in. Nothing more than that.

Cole was crouched on the riverbank when Dorian returned, carefully scouring blood from the former-mercenary's blade with sand. He looked up, an almost-smile momentarily brightening the sad angles of his face as the mage sat beside him. “Rhys doesn't know what he thinks.” Cole confided, flipping the knife over in his hands to scrub at the other side of the blade. “Proud,relieved but afraid. The last time I had a knife there were bodies in the cells and blood on the stone, he's afraid I'll become that again.”

Dorian reached out and caught Cole's pale hand in his, turning it palm up and brushing grit away from the slashes that marred the skin. “I'm not afraid of you.”

“I know.” Cole's soft voice was worried rather than relieved, but he didn't elaborate. Just watched with wide-eyed curiosity as Dorian pulled strips of cloth out of his pocket: the sad remains of what had been a particularly comfortable linen undershirt. 

“While I very much appreciate the timely rescue,” Dorian quirked a smile to take any sting from his words as he wound the soft cloth around Cole's hands. “I'd really rather you didn't do that again. Didn't anyone ever tell you not to hold the sharp end of things?”

“No?” Cole replied tentatively, as if he wasn't entirely certain.

“Well, now you know.” Dorian tied the last strip of cloth with a flourish, unconsciously raising Cole's hand to his mouth and pressing his lips against his bandaged palm. 

Cole's fingers twitched against Dorian's cheek, breath hitching in his chest. Dorian meant to pull away, to apologize for his presumption, but Cole was staring at him, mouth ajar and eyes bright. It was far to easy to tug him forward and press their mouths together instead. 

It was immediately obvious that Cole had no idea what he was doing, or what was expected of him. Dorian cupped his jaw, encouraging him to open his mouth and flicking his tongue over his teeth, feeling rather than hearing Cole's surprised exhale. Hands, feather light, danced over Dorian's face before settling: one on his cheek and the other airily cupping the back of his head. 

It was awkward, borderline uncomfortable, and left Dorian more stunned and breathless than any kiss he had ever experienced. Cole was timid, more gentle than Dorian preferred, but open and honest in a way that was thrillingly unfamiliar. There was none of the shameful hurry that Dorian was used to, or the perfunctory pandering.

“That's good.” Cole murmured against Dorian's mouth. “You should feel like that.”

“If I'm not interrupting,” Rhys said coldly, his hands clenched so tightly around the reins of his hart that the knuckles showed white through the skin. “We should probably get moving.”

Dorian jerked away from Cole like he'd been burned, ignoring the confusion that washed over his face, chasing away the pleasure that had brightened it a moment before. It was hard to look at Rhys, at the icy condemnation that made an achingly familiar guilt start to ball in Dorian's gut. Except this time it was deserved. Cole had been victimized for months, what kind of monster would take advantage of his willingness, his gentle nature.......

Rhys did his best to protect Cole, he always had. Dorian couldn't blame him for his disapproval, but that didn't make it any easier to brush Cole's hands aside and walk away, Rhys' eyes burning into his back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't mean for Rhys to come across as a jerk in this situation, just as an overprotective brother-figure who's watched far too much nasty crap happen to Cole.


	13. Consent and loathing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When a tryst goes in an unexpected direction, Dorian blames himself and questions the morality of his attraction to Cole.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beware all ye who enter here, for there be smut and.....weird consent issues.

Dorian woke like he'd been doused in cold water, mind still spinning with vague, imagined images of long limbs and skin so pale it was almost translucent. His traitorous body enthusiastically recalled the dream, even as Dorian became increasingly aware that he was freezing, and the moldy straw he and Rhys were sleeping in smelled pervasively like nug piss. 

The ragged beams of the abandoned barn made lines against the clear, starlit sky, but did absolutely nothing to seal in any warmth. Shivering, Dorian dragged his cloak tighter about himself and wondered how the southerners even survived the winter; it was only late summer here and already the nights were uncomfortable. 

Earlier, Cole had risked Rhys' ire and curled up at Dorian's back, sharing his body warmth with typical selflessness. Hating himself with every breath, Dorian had held himself aloof until, rebuffed, Cole had slunk off to keep watch until dawn. It left Dorian numb with guilt, only Rhys' words, circling in Dorian's mind like knives, kept him from following. 

_“I won't have Cole used again,” Rhys had snapped. “Your family has already done enough damage without you making it worse! He's not your property to be pawed at and manipulated.”_

_“I'm not...that's...” Words withered as Rhys had interrupted, anger making his voice thick and rough._

_“Cole cares for you, that much is obvious....but if you take that affection and taint it, twist it to your own desires..”_

_“I'm not 'tainting' anything!” Dorian had protested, outrage finally overcoming his shock. “Cole isn't some child you need to lead around by the hand, he's more than capable of making his own decisions.”_

_“Is he?” Rhys had asked bitterly. “Cole would cut his own throat if he thought it would help you. If he thinks it would make you happy he'll go willingly to your bed and you'll be no better than that raping bastard your father turned loose on him!”_

Roused to fury by the accusation, Dorian had acidly suggested that if Rhys wanted to control Cole's every movement, maybe he should have brought Halward's warded collar and leash to lead him about on. Dorian hadn't even bothered trying to dodge the blow that had snapped his head back and split his lip. He'd deserved it.

The three days to the border had been spent in cold silence. Cole reacted to the conflict with increased anxiety, frightened by the growing rift between his friends and upset by his own inability to salve the hostility. Dorian's distance confused the spirit further, and served only to make both of them miserable.

Wrapping his cloak tightly around himself, Dorian rolled from the straw and padded out into the night. The chill silence was somehow more isolating than ever, Dorian looked forward to the first town they had agreed on stopping at. No matter how barbaric a southern inn was almost guaranteed to be, at least there would be light, warmth, hot food and some sort of noise that might possibly be music. 

Idly, Dorian mused that there might even be willing company. Maybe some curious lad with pale eyes and fair hair....

“Would that help?” Cole dropped soundlessly off a roof beam, startling an unmanly yelp out of Dorian.

Clutching at his chest, Dorian struggled to get a breath. “Maker's breath, Cole! Make some noise next time!”

“Rhys said I was supposed to be quiet. Waiting, watchful and wary.” Cole tilted his head to look at Dorian. “Would it help?”

“Would what help, exactly?”

“If you had sex with someone that looked like me.” Cole blinked, confusion obvious on his thin face. “You think he could be like me...but not. The same, but safe. Would it make it better if you did?”

“That's not....Haven't I asked you to stay out of my private thoughts? Repeatedly.”

“But you're so loud,” Cole managed to look almost contrite. “You spill sorrow into the song, it stings, stifles. I could help, but you wont let me.”

“Cole...” Dorian sighed as the spirit pressed close, tentative in a way he hadn't been since they left the Pavus estate. “It's complicated.”

“No. You make it that way.” Cole shifted so he could rest his forehead on Dorian's shoulder, long arms wrapping timidly around his waist. “It hurts you. I'm sorry.”

Dorian had been trying to respect the boundaries Rhys had insisted on between him and Cole, no matter how ridiculous he considered them. Every ounce of him, every fiber of Dorian's body wanted to taste Cole's mouth again, to drive away the anxious melancholy in his eyes. 

He meant to push Cole away and return to his rest, but Dorian's hands turned traitor and pulled him closer instead. Cole's fine, wispy hair caught on new callouses that marred the formerly pampered skin on Dorian's palms, skin blazing hot against his fingertips. The spirit turned his head to nuzzle at Dorian's hand, his breath a warm promise as the mage traced the curve of his bottom lip with his thumb.

Every brush against Cole's skin lit a fire in Dorian, humming in his head like a perfectly cast spell. The fade, he realized: Cole was bound to it, existed because of it, tasted of it. Dorian pushed Cole's hair aside, pressed his lips to the angle of his jaw, thrilled when the spirit made a contented noise and his grip on Dorian tightened. 

When Dorian moved down to Cole's mouth he was almost shocked by the sweetly eager response. There was no awkward hesitancy, and that more than anything, made Dorian pull back.

“I did that in your head when you slept,” Cole murmured, answering Dorian's unspoken question. “It hurt when you woke, but this isn't wrong.” 

Dorian was glad the darkness hid the flush that darkened has cheeks; he'd had some exceptionally vivid and embarrassing dreams about Cole that involved a whole lot more than kissing. 

“Yes, that.” Cole sounded pleased. “Find the parts that ache, rising until everything bursts in brilliance. Ryhs thinks it would hurt me, make me less, but it's still what I am.”

“You want this?” Dorian gasped as Cole's hot tongue found the pulse point on his neck and licked a wet strip across his skin. “Maker, Cole. Tell me you want this.”

“Yes. It's right.” Cole hummed as Dorian caught his mouth again, kissing him between words. “It's good.”

A dilapidated railing creaked alarmingly as Dorian pushed Cole up against it and they both froze, Dorian looking guiltily over at the yawning mouth of the sagging barn door.

“He's asleep,” Cole confirmed. “Soft dreams. The spire, the market. A girl who made cages from spun sugar, delicate and sweet on the tongue.”

“I truly hope that's not a euphemism.”

“No? Yes?” Cole trailed after Dorian as the mage caught him by the hand and pulled him down the overgrown path away from the barn. “I don't know.”

“That clears up absolutely nothing, thank you.” Dorian laughed, almost giddy with desire. 

Together they crossed an old barley field in a headlong rush, splashing through a shallow stream and ducking into an overgrown apple orchard. It was ridiculously spontaneous, and Dorian was well aware that they both probably looked half mad. 

A twisting root nearly sent Dorian sprawling, but he managed to retain some sense of dignity as he tumbled Cole into the long grass with him. It was like being a youth again, all nerves and fumbling hands. Dorian was embarrassingly aware of how quickly his body was responding to the situation as he tugged up the ragged hem of Cole's shirt, fingers eager on the exposed skin of his stomach. 

Cole smiled up at him, a flash of relief and honest joy lighting his eyes. “You're happy,” he enthused, half sitting up so Dorian could pull his shirt the rest of the way off. “The hurt is less like this. Not healed, but dimmed and distant. ”

It was hard to answer, or even to think, with Cole half dressed beneath him. All long limbs and stunningly pale skin. Dorian straddled his hips, leaned forward to kiss him again, moaning into his mouth when long fingers scraped across his scalp and clenched in his hair. 

The buckles on Dorian's robes were a stylish inconvenience at the best of times. Now they stubbornly resisted his hurried fingers until Cole took over, surprisingly deft at getting the straps to cooperate until Dorian could shrug the material off his shoulders. 

The chill of the air raised Dorian's skin into gooseflesh. Cole's hands mapped sparking heat across his chest, a ragged thumbnail catching on a pebbled nipple and making Dorian gasp, hips moving involuntarily to press swollen flesh against the lacing of his trousers. The gasp turned to a groan as Cole, effortlessly flexible, arched up to follow his fingers with his mouth. 

“Yes. Like that.” Cole encouraged as Dorian struggled with his lacings, knuckles tantalizing against his need.

Dorian shuddered with relief as he eased his trousers down, hips jerking helplessly as Cole stroked him. He wanted to last, to take Cole in every glorious way he could imagine until he could watch him come undone, but his climax was rising embarrassingly fast. Cole seemed to know exactly how to touch him, and distantly, Dorian knew that was strange, but it felt so good.....so _right._

Heat blazed through Dorian like summoned fire and he came with a wordless shout, spilling across Cole's fingers and belly, shaking with the force of it. Dimly he was aware that Cole's touch had become gently tentative and unsure as he eased Dorian through aftershocks that made him gasp and shiver.

“It's harder to see when your mind goes bright,” Cole admitted. “All white lights and far away.”

“That's one way of saying it.” Dorian panted, feeling a bit ashamed for finishing as fast as he had, but he wasn't used to being....catered to. His previous partners had, for the most part, been more concerned with their own pleasure than his.

“I like making you feel good.” Cole reached up to touch Dorian's face, curiously tracing the curve of his lips and the waxed curl of his mustache. 

“The feeling is going to be very mutual,” Dorian promised, flicking out his tongue to taste himself on Cole's fingers. Smirking at the spirit's surprise when he took the digits between his lips and suckled with purpose.

With the immediate urgency somewhat sated, Dorian bent to kiss Cole again, sweet and unhurried. Cole sighed into his mouth, arms wrapping around Dorian's neck and pulling him close. 

Dorian only pulled away to breathe, catching Cole's bottom lip in his teeth before moving lower to kiss his way down his throat. The spirit was quiet, hands almost passive on Dorian's shoulders even as he pressed into every touch. Letting his hands wander over the taught lines of Cole's stomach Dorian reached lower to cup him through the rough cotton of his trousers, fingers moving to trace a hardness that....wasn't there.

For a desperate, hopeful moment, Dorian thought that maybe Cole had already come. Maker only knows it wasn't like he'd had any positive sexual experiences before....but there was no dampness, no twitch of flesh to even suggest he had ever been interested. 

Staring, Dorian jerked his hands away from Cole like he'd been burned. Now he thought to look it was obvious. Cole's pale skin was untouched by any flush of desire, his breathing quiet and regular. There was interest and curiosity in his eyes, but no lust or need.

A sour dread rose in Dorian as he lurched to his feet and struggled to drag his robes back on over sweat damp skin. Rhys' voice ringing through his mind: _“If he thinks it would make you happy he'll go willingly to your bed and you'll be no better than that raping bastard your father turned loose on him!”_

“Did....did you even want this?” _Want me? ___

__“Yes.” Cole looked confused as Dorian pulled away. “I wanted to help, and I like being close to you. You felt better, floating and free....but now you're.....hurt, angry. Did I do it wrong?”_ _

__Cole stared up with wide, uncomprehending eyes as Dorian turned away, retching bile at the sight of the semen drying in patches on the spirit's fair skin. Even in the face of his his father's endless disapproval, the shame Dorian felt had never reached the utter self-loathing that burned through him now._ _

__“That's not...this was...wrong. This was so wrong.” Dorian dug a knuckle against his eyes, pressing away the tears because dammit he had no right....no right. “I'm so sorry....”_ _

__“You didn't hurt me...” Cole's voice rose in agitation. “You think you did, but you didn't. I wanted _this. You._ , I wanted...”_ _

__“To help. I know.” Dorian laughed, bitter and sharp edged. “But there should be more to this than _helping_ me. It's not just me here after all.”_ _

__“Oh. You wanted my flesh to be the same as yours.” Cole looked down his body contemplatively, “but I only made what the real Cole remembered. For him that was always pain, I didn't want it. I don't know how to be what you want....I'm sorry.”_ _

__Cole rolled easily to his feet, and Dorian couldn't help but appreciate the smooth play of lithe muscles as he bent to retrieve his discarded shirt. Then he wanted to gouge out his eyes and sear the sockets with white-hot fire because how could he even begin to think like that after this....he'd cut his own damn hands off before he touched Cole again._ _

__“But I like how you touch me...” Cole said plaintively. “I want to be more for you, please.. I'll try...I'll...”_ _

__Some people wouldn't care, Dorian realized. Probably a few of the men he'd bedded wouldn't have cared if Cole got any physical enjoyment out of the act; he would have been willing, that's all they would want. And here he was, a sentimental fool, horrified at the offer and shocked at the desperation in Cole's voice._ _

__“I'm sorry,” Cole whispered. He hunched his shoulders, every angle of his posture screaming misery. “I did this all wrong and I can't make you forget.....” For a second, Cole's form wavered in a flash of white and sharp edged black before the energy discharged down through the brands on his back._ _

__Startled and sick, Dorian watched Cole shiver through the pain his attempt triggered. He looked at Dorian with tears in his startling eyes, jaw set and panting through clenched teeth._ _

__“No more, Cole. Please.” Dorian lost the battle and felt hot tears streak his cheeks. “Just.... don't.”_ _

__Dorian turned away, unable to look at the hurt on Cole's face. Rhys had been right. Every word, every condemnation. He'd taken something beautiful and unique and twisted it with his own selfish needs...._ _

__A tentative touch on the shoulder made Dorian flinch. He pulled away, hating himself as he heard Cole's breath hitch._ _

__“I don't understand....”_ _

__“Of course you don't.” Dorian grinned mirthlessly, an edge of vicious humor he turned on himself. “You only see the best in people.”_ _

__Cole hung his head, hair tangled over hollow eyes. His voice barely reached Dorian as he walked away: “That's why I saw you....”_ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Issues all around!  
> I've always written a more human!Cole in sex scenes, but I really wanted to tackle a Cole who could consent on a mental level, but didn't have enough connection to his physical form to feel desire. (Although it's going to be fun when that comes up once this story reaches sections covered in DA:I)Naturally Dorian overreacted, Cole doesn't get it at all & someone is going to have to take them aside and give them a good Tamassaran style talking-to.


	14. Communication and cowardice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian struggles with guilt, Cole is still confused and Rhys would like to kill them both if the Templars don't get there first.

Dervin's Crossing was, presumably, named for the indomitable Dervin, who had forded the murky expanse of water that passed for a river and founded a town on the far bank. The ugly, muddy, ramshackle establishment liked to term itself a city, but Dorian was certain it simply had delusions of grandeur; in Tevinter a shoddy assortment of buildings like this wouldn't even merit the label of hovel.

If nothing else, the dour settlement accompanied by a persistent drizzle managed to make what had become a miserable trudge even worse. The sickening guilt of the night before had solidified into an ache that made Dorian wish for anything that would block it out, preferably something found in a bottle or ten.

Whatever sad excuse for wine the local tavern served would, at the very least, block out the visceral memory of Cole's eager mouth against his. Of how hot his skin had been, and how much, underneath all the crushing regret, Dorian wanted to feel that again.

Cole was obviously about as miserable as Dorian, remaining uncharacteristically silent even in the face of Rhys' concerned badgering. His melancholy was only brightened when he found a cold, muddy nug in a drainage ditch and cuddled the mangy thing for miles until it was warm enough to scuttle away, chirping contentedly, into a thicket of brambles. 

“Alright,” Rhys looked around at the bustling dockside marketplace, patting their remaining hart regretfully. “I'll try to find a buyer for this fine fellow and book us barge passage downriver.”

“Lovely, a trip on a grubby, oversized raft crewed by men who only bathe if they fall overboard. An excellent suggestion.”

“Dorian....” Rhys sighed. “Can you just go find us rooms somewhere. Cole, come with me please, we've got to do something about your clothes.”

“What's wrong with my clothes?” Cole peered down at his torn, stained outfit in confusion. He brushed absently at muddy nug footprints on his shirtfront. “I'm not cold.”

“Not really the point.” Rhys smiled fondly. “Also, I'm going to need some help hauling this gear.”

“Oh. Alright.” Cole went willingly enough, following Rhys into the market with only one wistful glance back.

Dorian pretended to be fascinated by a display of cabbages so it wasn't obvious that he was watching Cole trail Rhys through the throng like a shadow. A pale hand snuck into a saddlebag, and Dorian smiled as Cole handed over the last of their supplies to a tired looking waif and the child tugging at her skirts.

A part of Dorian knew that this would be the perfect opportunity to run. To just walk away and find somewhere where it wasn't raining and muddy and cold, where he didn't have to ache for someone he couldn't...shouldn't have. Somewhere where he didn't have to worry that Rhys would find out what he'd done and call up a vengeful spirit to castrate him in his sleep.

He could go home. Beg his father for forgiveness and kneel for whatever foul, life altering magic Halward had planned. Be a good little sycophant and spend a luxurious, miserable life making up for everything he'd done to Cole. For everything he wanted to keep doing....

Instead, Dorian did the second most cowardly thing he could: he paid for rooms above a greasy tavern with a handful of coin looted from his father's hirelings, bought a bottle of effervescent blue liquor that was supposedly avar-brewed, and got as drunk as he possibly could. 

___________________________________________________________________________

“Tore me from here to here!” The huntsman pulled up his tunic to showcase a ragged scar that bisected his broad chest. “Damn sow nearly took my heart, but she made a fine rug.”

If he hadn't been so blissfully drunk, Dorian would have sent the tedious boor packing, preferably after setting fire to the ridiculous fur ruff on his collar. As it was he was rather enjoying the warm weight of the man's hand on his thigh, the way he kept leaning in, eyes intent and unashamedly admiring. Any lingering discontent over the fact that his hands were too large and too rough, or that his hair was dark instead of fair, could be buried under drink and arousal.

Taking another swig of a local brew that he favored, the hunter reached out to press a calloused thumb against Dorian's mouth, scraping the nail against his bottom lip almost hard enough to break the skin. “Fuck, but you're pretty.” Another drink and his hand spread out over Dorian's jaw, gripping tight enough to hurt. “My pretty little mage.”

That penetrated the alcoholic haze enough to make Dorian uneasy. Dervin's crossing wasn't exactly overrun with Templars, but their colors hung on the modest town Chantry....the last thing he needed was some drunken lout getting him hauled off as an apostate.

Thankfully that little outburst seemed to be the extent of the huntsman's....(had he told Dorian his name? Herand...Herland?) vocabulary, and he subsided, one hand on his ale mug and the other working higher up Dorian's leg. Content to slouch and watch people come and go through foggy eyes, Dorian casually let his knees fall apart under the table, shivering when Herland got the hint and grabbed him roughly.

Dorian took another mouthful of drink as he watched Rhys and Cole make their way through the crowded common room. The harsh liquor didn't taste of much at this point, but it blurred the edges of the guilt and loneliness, buried the unwelcome emotions in blessed oblivion. 

Through hooded eyes, Dorian watched Cole...Maker, why had Rhys outfitted him in leathers tight enough to show every line of his long legs. The snug harness that attached a pair of sheathed daggers to his shoulder blades was another surprise. Rhys usually got a strained expression anytime Cole had a blade, but apparently Cole's almost frightening proficiency with a knife had finally won him over.

“Huh.” Herland grunted, noticing that Dorian was distracted by watching Cole slip through the crowd at the bar. “That yer slave? Skinny little pup, but he's got a pretty mouth.”

“My.... _what?”_ Dorian hissed, shoving Herland's hand away. “No!”

“Oh.” The huntsman sounded more disappointed than anything, determinedly returning his hand. “But yer a 'vint mage, a what's th' word.....Magister? Don't you all got slaves?”

“Maker's sake, I'm not a Magister.” Dorian longingly eyed his drink, the reality of being groped by the handsome, but utterly thick, huntsman had utterly lost it's appeal. So much for the mindless, rough sex he had been craving. “And stop pawing at me.”

“Aww, don't be like that!” Herland leered drunkenly and bellowed across several tables at Cole. “Hey, little pup! Come have a drink!”

Rhys frowned and Cole gave a full body shudder, turning away and hunching his shoulders, a fringe of ragged hair obscuring his eyes. That reaction, more than Herland's uncoordinated fumbling, ended Dorian's night. He shoved his drink away sourly. 

Accepting that Dorian was a lost cause, Herland grumpily turned his attentions towards a freckled dwarven woman who looked more likely to upend her stew on the huntsman than sit on his lap. He muttered something derogatory under his breath as Dorian slid away from his grasping hand, swarthy face set in a sullen scowl. Apparently the lout was unused to having people walk away from him.

By the time Dorian had unsteadily made his way upstairs to his room he felt exhausted. A headache was building behind his eyes and the bitter aftertaste left by the supposed Avar liquor had solidified into something truly foul. 

More than anything, Dorian just wanted to crawl into a bed that hopefully wasn't lice ridden and pretend the last few days had never happened, but when the door latch finally clicked open, he was surprised to find himself in a well lit room that smelled suspiciously of willow-bark and embrium tea. Cole was sitting on his bed with a distant expression, head tilted as if he was listening to a quiet conversation. 

“Jera said you should drink the tea while it's hot.” Cole blinked and Dorian could see his eyes refocus, sharp and clear. “Then you wont be sick in the morning.”

“Who's 'Jera'?”

“She serves drinks and loves the miller's son, but he doesn't know.” Cole frowned, “she says it has to stay a secret.”

“Hmmm.” Dorian retrieved a steaming mug from the night table and swilled the contents contemplatively before downing the concoction. It was so thick with honey that it nearly stuck in his throat.

“You like it sweet.” Cole said timidly. He was tugging nervously at his sleeves, picking at threads until Dorian half wanted to grab his hands to make him stop. “He wanted to hurt you. In his head you were bound and begging....but you knew, you wanted. _Let him take control. Fall away and not be me-if only for a moment._ ”

Dorian didn't have to ask who. Half of what had attracted him to Herland had been the promise of rough, uncomplicated sex, he just wanted someone who would help him work out the stress of the previous weeks. Bury everything in the sharp ache of being used.

“Exchange one hurt for another, make the pain a penance.” Cole muttered, breathy voice barely above a whisper. “I don't know how to take, but I can be wrecked and wrenched. If it helps, you can hurt me, Dorian.”

If Cole had leaped across the room and buried a knife to the hilt in Dorian's gut it wouldn't have shocked or horrified him more. Cole kept his head down, every inch of him screaming nervous submission. Dorian wanted to either shake him or be sick. Possibly both. 

“I think I've done quite enough of that, thank you.” Dorian snapped, anger rising in him unexpectedly. He'd given up so much- _his Father, his future_ -to free Cole from Halward's abuse only to have him calmly offer himself up as if it was nothing. As if Dorian couldn't remember the smell of burnt flesh and fresh blood in nauseating detail. The screams that he still heard in his head....

“I could be quiet?....No, that's not right.” Cole fretted, “I made it worse. I'm s...sorry. I thought...”

“You thought I would want to hurt you?!” Dorian watched Cole flinch from the anger in his voice, eyes wide under the ragged ends of his hair, and was suddenly achingly tired. “Maker's breath, Cole....”

Cole slipped furtively off the bed, and Dorian took his place; dropping heavily onto the slightly lopsided mattress and burying his face in his hands. Even with the tea, a headache was burning behind his eyes. The room was heaving slowly like the gentle roll of a ship, and all Dorian wanted to do was fall into it and sleep.

“I'm sorry. I'm trying...but I keep getting things wrong.” Cole crouched in front of Dorian, palms resting lightly on his knees. “It's too much, too new. It makes it hard to see.”

“I know.” Dorian rested his hand on Cole's bowed head, fingers automatically combing through the tangled gold of his hair. “I know.”

Without him consciously moving it, Dorian's hand slid from the crown of Cole's head to cup his jaw. Cole turned to nuzzle at his fingers, lips soft and chapped against his palm. Dorian hated how the simple gesture made his breath catch and his body surge with renewed arousal. Hours of being pawed at by Herland hadn't made him as hard as the feel of Cole's breath against his skin.

Dorian wanted to be a good man. The kind who would have sent Cole away before the door had even closed. Banished him off to the room he would share with Rhys, who would answer his endless questions and read to him in horribly accented Tevene. The kind who wouldn't imagine long legs around his waist and the hot pressure of a mouth against his.

Cole blinked up at him through the hair that hung in his eyes, moving to his knees and sliding his hands from Dorian's knees to his thighs. As Dorian's hitched breath rasped in his throat like a sob, the spirit tilted his head, confusion creasing his forehead.

“I don't understand. It burns in your blood, swelling and aching under the skin. I can make it stop....but it hurt you before, I don't want to hurt you again.” Cole dropped his head to rest against Dorian's leg. “You aren't taking, I want to be yours.”

It would be so easy, Dorian thought hazily. Cole wouldn't need much encouragement. A gentle hand on the back of his head, a whispered entreaty and his mouth would be on him. Taking him in with nothing but enthusiastic acceptance. And he would be lost....so far from home and who he wanted to be. 

“Please...” Dorian faltered, unsure of what he was asking for. He wanted to beg, tangle his fingers in Cole's hair and pull his mouth down to where the ache was becoming unbearable. He wanted to break his own fingers and burn them in the fires of his own self-loathing. ... “I...”

Cole rocked back on his heels, hands dropping limply to his sides. His strange eyes fluttered closed, and he sighed softly before calmly reaching out to begin unlacing Dorian's boots.

“What?” Dorian rasped, dizzied and lost by the abrupt change in mood. Cole's body language has changed, his shoulders becoming tight with tension and a hollow sadness settling over his face. “what are you doing?”

Cole tugged off first one boot and then the other before he stood, fingers gently soothing away the throb in Dorian's temples. “You are tired, tangled and tempted, but trying not to take. I could take away the hurt _now_ , but it would be worse later. You should sleep instead.”

The mattress was lumpy. If there had ever been feathers in it, they had been liberally padded with ancient straw that had taken on the odor of many a drunken sleeper. The blanket was more patch than original fabric, faded to some indeterminable color that hovered between a greasy brown and a sickly, washed-out green. Dorian was so tired it might as well have been a bed made of spider silk and wyvern down.

Closing his eyes, Dorian willed the room to stop spinning and his body to stop twitching with interest every time Cole's fingers brushed his skin. “I'm sorry....” he murmured, not sure what he was apologizing for, but feeling guilty nonetheless. He reached out, fumbling blindly until his hand met warm leather and gripped, feeling the muscles in Cole's thigh twitching as he shifted restively. It was on the tip of Dorian's tongue to ask Cole to stay, but the ridiculous sentimentality of the request caught in his throat like the honeyed tea. He had no right....

The clatter of Cole's knife harness on the floor and the whisper of rough cloth against skin was Dorian's only warning before Cole slipped under the meager covers with him. He held himself awkwardly, tentative until Dorian opened his arms and Cole buried himself in the mage's embrace like a drowning man clinging to driftwood in a storm. Not for the first time, Dorian wondered if anyone other than Rhys and himself had ever touched Cole, either the human boy or the spirit who wore his face, with anything approaching kindness. 

With an almost inaudible sigh, Cole relaxed, leaving Dorian with an armful of limply pliant spirit. Lassitude spread through Dorian like warm water, driving away the doubts and self recrimination as he rested his cheek against Cole's tangled hair and let exhaustion drag him down.

___________________________________________________________________________

The crash of Dorian's door opening snapped him from slumber into a morning so early it was still dark. Through the window, the barest hint of dawn lightened the sky. Unfortunately the oil lamp that had been lit the evening before was still burning, which gave Rhys a better view of a half naked Cole curled up against Dorian's side than Dorian would have preferred. 

There was a flash of rage on Rhys' face that was expected, and a sad kind of disappointment that made Dorian feel a bit ill. “Get up.” Rhys said, voice ice cold with suppressed anger as he retrieved Dorian's robes and Cole's crumpled tunic from the floor and pitched them hard in the direction of the bed. “Get dressed, both of you.” 

“Is this really necessary?” Dorian tried for diplomacy, tugging the patched blanket higher and blinking blearily. “I'm sure we can all just discuss...”

“Someone told the Templars we were here.” Rhys cut Dorian off sharply, the condemnation clear in his tone as he watched Cole tug on his tunic and knives. “Maker willing,we can make it to the river before they catch us. Now move.”


	15. Separation and sacrifice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Templar ambush forces Rhys to make a terrible choice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I apologize for this chapter taking a few millennia to arrive! Taking a new business through an (absolutely insane) holiday season was more difficult than expected. (sleep? what is this 'sleep' everyone talks about?)On top of that I've got some medical issues that currently require several spinal injections a week, which is about as fun as it sounds.  
> Thank you to everyone that has been so supportive and encouraging~your comments are so very, very appreciated. With things settling down, I'll be hopefully settling into a far more regular update schedule again. :)

“This is becoming rather a habit,” Dorian said quietly. “Fleeing towns in the middle of the night like common thieves. I'm on the verge of becoming an elegant, well dressed cliche.”

Rhys didn't reply, and honestly, Dorian didn't really expect him to. He'd been stalking through the sleeping town in a righteous fury, shoulders stiff with barely suppressed vitriol. Even Cole's confused attempt to placate his friend had been coldly rebuffed.

“How exactly did you hear about these Templars?”

“Well, instead of making a drunken fool of myself all evening I made some inquiries. It's amazing what one can learn if you're not pawing the locals and....” Rhys' eyes darted toward Cole and his jaw clenched. “The rebellion has spread further than I was lead to believe, the Templars are taking anyone who looks anything like a mage into custody. Maker only knows how many innocents have been caught in the crossfire.”

 _”Drag the bodies into the forest and fire the wagon, blame it on bandits. Maker have mercy, I thought they were apostates.”_ Cole shivered, eyes wide and scared. “They aren't like Evangeline...”

“Easy, Cole.” Rhys cautioned, guiding them into the shadows behind a chandlery. Down the street a mailed fist pounded on a tavern door and sleepy voices were raised in protest. “We need to get to the docks.”

“What kind of crew leaves at this hour?” Dorian whispered before rolling his eyes and answering his own question. “Oh. So now we're falling in with the criminal element. Wonderful.”

Rhys ignored the remark, but Dorian could see the twitch of muscles in his jaw as he clenched his teeth. 

Through some unspoken agreement the group slipped furtively from building to building until they were away from the inns and the searching Templars. This left them to scramble through farmer's fields, startled into a sprint when a bull druffalo snorted and mock charged at them when they got too close to the herd. 

“I don't even want to know what I've stepped in.” Dorian grumbled, twisting to avoid the clutching tendrils of a sprawling blackberry bush. Despite his best efforts, the grasping thorns snagged on his trousers and raised beads of blood on his skin. 

“It was druffalo dung,” Cole said shyly. “You said you didn't want to know, but you really did.”

“I suppose I did. Dorian conceded, scuffing his boot through the dew laden grass. “Though next time I would rather know before I stepped in it.”

“I'll tell you next time.” Cole promised with such sincerity that Dorian couldn't help but grin, earning himself a sweet smile in return that wasn't even dimmed by Rhys' obvious disapproval. 

They could hear and smell the river before they could see it. The slap of waves against wood, the sour scent of bilge water, the yells and general commotion of the riverboat crew getting the last of their goods aboard. To Dorian it was the sound of a new personal low: skulking through barnyards in the hopes of escaping on a cold, damp, foul smelling barge crewed by a bunch of common smugglers.

“He's worried. The paper gets heavier....the others don't know. _”Just one more run. One more and I'll have enough to get out.”_ Cole turned wide eyes towards the docks. “He's afraid.”

“Who is?” Rhys stopped so abruptly that Dorian nearly ran into him. “Captain Rasel?”

“A man in armor brought him a letter,” Cole frowned. “He burned it, but it still holds him down. He's afraid of chains in the water.”

Rhys looked grim, staring towards the docks with hooded eyes. “I don't know what you're sensing, Cole, but we don't have a choice. It won't be long before someone tells the Templars where we've gone. Go on and see if the Captain is ready to go.”

Dorian watched Cole leave with a sense of trepidation. As if sensing Dorian's unease, Cole looked back over his shoulder, eyes unreadable under the ragged hair of his bangs. Schooling his face and mind into a blandly reassuring landscape, Dorian hoped that wouldn't be his last sight of the unique creature who had changed his life in such unexpected ways. 

The tense silence from Rhys was almost worse than the retaliation Dorian expected. His body was tense with waiting, stomach clenched in anticipation of a blow that never came.

“About a half day downriver is a good sized town, the riverboat will be stopping there to unload some cargo.” Rhys smiled blandly as he spoke, as if he was discussing the weather with a passing acquaintance. “You will disembark there. I hope you will recognize that it is for the best, and leave willingly.”

Gaping in a way he was aware probably looked foolish, Dorian stared at Rhys' impassive face. He'd expected anger, outrage, anything but a dismissal that Dorian would have been ashamed to offer a house slave. 

“You've got everything worked out then?” The flippancy caught and turned bitter in Dorian's throat, and he turned his head before Rhys could see the shame of tears that burned in his eyes. “Just send me off and drag Cole from one end of Thedas to the other in search of your Templar paramour? I wonder how well that reunion will go when she finds out you come with a spirit you insist on keeping on a leash!”

Rhys' face flushed, eyes going hard and angry. “She'll protect him, like she always has. Cole needs to be protected from people who are willing to use him for...”

A distant crash cut Rhys short. Shouts of alarm rose on the dawn air as both mages spun towards the source of the noise, moving in silent accord. 

It took a moment for Dorian to recognize the emblem emblazoned on the armor of the men swarming the docks, burnished breastplates gleaming with the flaming sword of the southern Templar order. A tall man was with them, tanned face still flushed from a night of drink, and furs looking somewhat bedraggled with early morning dew.

“That's them!” Herland yelled, pointing an accusing finger at Dorian. “The 'vint is a magister spy! He threatened me with blood magic when I refused to bed him!”

“That's not true!” Cole sounded more upset that Herland was lying than he was by the Templars who were eyeing him with suspicion and open hostility.

The hiss of blades leaving sheaths was like a death knell and Dorian watched Rhys blanch white under his beard as Cole's long fingers reached for the knives on his back. The spirit was fast, and after the ambush at the river crossing, Dorian had a lot of respect for his skill with a blade-but against the well armed and armored Templars he stood little chance. 

The hull of the riverboat scraped harshly against the dock as crewmen struggled to toss aside mooring lines before the Templars turned their attention to the hastily tarp-covered cargo. Dorian edged toward Cole, surprised by the unflinching weight of Rhys' hand on his shoulder.

“Get Cole on that boat.” Rhys' voice was utterly calm and resigned as he moved past Dorian. “Don't let them take him.” 

Dorian watched Cole blink, confused as Rhys stepped forward. Pale eyes widening as he watched his friend offer his staff in open palms. Dimly, Dorian could hear Rhys talking in a low, urgent voice; then he was pushing Cole back as a Templar bawled a warning and the radiance of spirit magic lit the dawn in an incandescent flare of green. 

It was a purely defensive spell. Dorian could see the shimmering barrier knock the closest Templars back, the most inexperienced dropping his shield with a crash as the force of the spellcasting made him stagger. Then the full force of a smite smashed Rhys to the ground, expanding out in a wave that rolled over Dorian like an unstoppable tide.

Dorian had read about, but never experienced, the powerful, magic neutralizing shock of a Templar's smite. Although the Templars that served the Imperial Chantry possessed the same abilities as their southern brethren, but they never would dare to act against the Altus son of a well respected Magister. 

Even on the periphery of the smite, it was like Dorian was suddenly limbless. Half blind and mute in a world grown suddenly dim. Struggling against the pressure that howled submission through his mind, Dorian could hear someone screaming, but through the roaring in his ears he couldn't tell if it was himself or Cole. 

Dorian staggered to his feet, clumsy fingers latching onto Cole's dagger harness and dragging him to his feet. Whatever influence the Templar's were exerting was making Cole shiver, eyes rolled back until only slivers of white showed and mouth bloody from where he'd bitten his lip. Even so, he resisted as Dorian pulled him toward the riverboat, head lolling toward where Rhys lay. 

The Templars were momentarily distracted as they rolled their captive onto his stomach, roughly kicking Rhys' staff away from his outstretched hand. The clank of manacles closing around Rhys' wrists roused Cole enough that he began to fight Dorian's guidance in earnest.

Cole often looked like anything stronger than a breeze could knock him over, but his strength shocked Dorian as he twisted and wrenched against his grip. He might be lanky and underfed, but there was whipcord muscle over his lean frame that stubbornly resisted being dragged when he clearly wanted to fight.

Herland was still pointing and shouting, voice rising above the scrape of the riverboat's hull against the dock as it started it's slow turn into the current. The Templars were starting to take interest again, and as Cole finally tore free, Dorian saw how it was all going to end. One of the greatest talents in Tevinter, and a being who was utterly unique, were going to die on some muddy bank in a grubby southern town. Ingloriously cut down by a bunch of over-armored thugs who's only response to anything they didn't understand was to bludgeon it into submission. He wondered if his father would even bother with the posthumous disowning, or just expire from shame.

It was obvious that Rhys knew, as Dorian did, what the only possible outcome could be. He struggled to his knees, robes streaked with mud and face grim with resignation. 

“Go, damn you!” Rhys yelled, voice cracking as he rallied his disrupted spirit magic and lashed out at Cole. “Run! I don't want you here.”

Shock, hurt, betrayal....all feelings that Dorian was intimately acquainted with, flickered across Cole's face as he staggered back, physically reeling from Rhys' assault. It was the kind of brutal burst of energy that was usually reserved for dealing with demons who pressed to close to a spellcaster; a last resort against entities formed of despair, pride and rage. 

Even before the nearest Templar brought the hilt of his sword down on Rhys' temple, Cole had fled from the pain of his rejection. Herland was still howling his epithets as Dorian tumbled them both onto the deck of the departing riverboat, pulling Cole into the shelter of the rudder as several arrows thudded into the deck. Then the current snatched at the boat, and the sight of the Templars crowding around their helpless prisoner dwindled into the distance.

___________________________________________________________________________

It was obvious that neither Captain Rasel or his rugged crew was much impressed by Dorian and Cole's unorthodox arrival. The bank slid by as they leaned on the oars, sweating and cursing and tried to put as much distance between their illicit cargo and the Templars as they could. It was a situation it was clear they considered to be the exclusive fault of their passengers.

Cole was silent and limply unresistant as Dorian settled them in the shelter of a stack of boxes covered in wax-rubbed cloth. His eyes were fixed and hollow, head tilted as if he was listening for some distant voice. 

“Hey,” Dorian cupped a hand over the spirit's cool cheek and turned Cole's face towards him. Wincing inwardly at the haunted, lost look that lingered in his eyes. “ Are you alright?”

“He _hurt_ me.” Cole said softly. “He found the parts that tie me and tore at them. He made me a demon, a wrong thing....but he wasn't angry and now I can't hear him.”

“He wanted you to be safe.” Dorian replied awkwardly. He was trying very hard to not think about what the Templars might do to their prisoner, the things he had read.... “He knew that if you had stayed and fought..”

“They like hurting people, I would have killed them” Cole said with a fierce surety that Dorian found simultaneously endearing and slightly terrifying. “Rhys never left me. Even when he knew I was wrong, or when the demon made me forget everything except the very bad day.”

There were a thousand platitudes that Dorian could have let roll off his tongue, but not one of them could adequately put what he felt into words. He respected Rhys, not only as a mage but as a person without who's guidance he never would have truly met Cole. But deep down, Dorian felt a shameful thrill of relief that now he wouldn't be sent away, that every move he made wouldn't be subject to judgment. 

“Here.” Dorian said instead, digging into the bottom of his pack for a delicately engraved flask that Felix had tucked into his roll of spare clothing. Uncapping it he took a mouthful, rolling the perfectly balanced fire of fine brandy over his tongue before offering the rest to Cole.

“I don't have to eat.” Cole looked blankly at the offering. “Felix meant it to be yours. A piece of home to remember. A burst of bright sun on the tongue.”

“You don't have to eat or drink, but you can.” Dorian cajoled. “It can't make you forget, but it can make remembering hurt less.”

While Cole showed none of the enthusiasm that Dorian thought such a fine vintage deserved, he did obediently swallow every time the flask was held to his lips. And if he never reached the level of mindless inebriation Dorian had hoped for, Cole was human enough to become pliant and hazy eyed. Eventually sliding down to sprawl on the rough deck, his head resting against Dorian's thigh as his eyes flickered shut and he relaxed into the choppy motion of the riverboat.

The water eddied by, gray and still smelling distinctly fishy. Dorian wound his chilled fingers in Cole's shaggy hair and watched the banks slide past. Each twisting,muddy bend carrying him further from anything he had ever known.


	16. Grief and ruin

“And what are you looking at?” Dorian tried to keep the concern out of his voice. “You've been out here for hours.”

Cole raised his head slowly, bloodshot eyes turning almost regretfully from the swirl of silty water he'd been staring at. He looked so tired it made Dorian ache with guilt for the several hours of sleep he'd indulged in under the oiled sailcloth the crew had strung up for the comfort of their passengers. 

“Where does it go?” 

“The river?” Dorian cupped his fingers under Cole's chin, thumb smoothing over his hollow cheek. “All the way to the ocean, I suppose.”

“What does it become when it gets there?” Cole shivered, pushing into Dorian's hand almost frantically. “I _left_ , Dorian. I left Rhys.”

The riverboat was three days downriver from Dervin's crossing. In that time, Dorian had watched Cole's shock turn to an all encompassing, guilt-ridden grief that almost terrified him. There were times, Dorian honestly worried about Cole's penchant for self-destructive behavior; he was too ready, almost eager, to endure hardship out of a misplaced sense of guilt. 

“I know, I know.” Dorian pulled Cole's shaggy head down against his shoulder. He was a warm weight, but Dorian was starting to wonder when he was going to touch Cole and feel the bone-chilling cold that clung to despair demons like a second skin.

“I don't think I would be that....”

“Yes. Well.” Dorian forced a smile onto his face, a false heartiness he didn't feel. “Why don't we go see if that poor, overworked cook needs help with whatever mush she's creating shall we?” 

There wasn't any part of Dorian that wanted to help a greasy fingered, grumpy woman turn substandard root vegetables and salted fish into an unpalatable stew, but if it made Cole's melancholy face brighten even slightly he'd peel potatoes until his fingers bled. 

The sour, dough-faced cook accepted their help with churlish ill-grace, setting Cole to cutting up onions and Dorian to hacking dry chunks of bread into manageable pieces while she monotonously stirred the sludge that passed for stew. By the time the concoction was slopped into bowls, Dorian was so utterly sick of the smell of salt-fish that he could barely choke down a half serving before pushing it away to be immediately claimed and gulped down by one of the deck-hands. 

His stomach still growling, Dorian paced the deck. It was already nearly dark, the sun sinking into a sullen, dreary dusk that was as dull as everything in the south seemed to be. He was already so weary of the cold and damp, the rough, bland food and the rough, bland people. He'd sell his soul for a proper bath rather than a quick wash in frigid river water and a delicately spiced meal that didn't taste of half-rancid fish and over-boiled roots.

“I'm sorry. You came because of me...” Cole's silent appearance made Dorian start. “Nothing of you fits here. Too dull, too lost. Everything bright is so far away.”

“You were only one reason I left,” Dorian opened his arms and Cole came to him immediately, pressing close. “You will recall my Father's rather despicable plans for my own future. Escaping that is well worth a few lousy meals and rainstorms, as are you.”

“Oh.” Cole sounded shyly pleased, winding his arms around Dorian's waist. “Thank you.”

Dorian put two fingers under Cole's chin and lifted his face so he could see his troubled eyes and kissed him gently. He meant it as a reassuring gesture, but Cole sighed against his mouth, his tongue flicking across Dorian's teeth. 

“Cole...” Dorian pulled away, equally aroused and disturbed by Cole's eager response. 

Whatever else he was going to say was disturbed by the harsh crash of the Captain's cabin door and the sound of voices roused in anger. Pulling Cole into the shadow of the mounded cargo, Dorian listened curiously.

“You're risking us all you bloody fool!” The first mate was a heavy set Fereldan man, his bearded face flushed with anger as he followed Captain Rasel across the deck. “I've heard of these mercenaries, and the ox-man who leads them. I don't plan on swinging from a gibbet because you can't pass up a handful of coin! ”

“A bunch of riff-raff, nothing more. They wont be expecting us through the canyons at night!”

“He's afraid,” Cole whispered against Dorian's ear. “A man came and told him he shouldn't be here. _You've been warned, Captain. You run lyrium downriver again and The Bull's Chargers will give you no quarter.”_

“They're smuggling lyrium?!” Dorian gasped. Suddenly the crew's standoffish behavior made sense, as did the heavy boxes Dorian had seen the crew lash firmly to the deck before piling their more mundane cargo overtop.

“You want to take this wallowing tub through the canyons at night?” There was a wet splat as the first mate spat down onto the deck. “The mage was bad enough, him and that mad boy he's buggering. Them and that blight-cursed cargo ought to go overboard, you as well if you won't see reason!”

“Are you threatening mutiny?” The sharp hiss of a belt-knife clearing it's sheath backed up the fury in the Captain's voice, sending the first mate into stuttering retreat. “I didn't think so. Now tell the boys to douse the lanterns, we'll take the canyons fast and quiet and be richer for it in the morning.”

The men moved away and Dorian breathed out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding and fumbled for Cole's hand in the dark. What kind of mess were they in now.

 

Dorian huddled under the makeshift shelter, listening to the water rush against the sides of the flat-bottomed river boat. They were gaining speed, he was sure of it, even if it was impossible to see in the dark. Cole was tucked in as close to Dorian as he could manage, knees drawn up to his thin chest as he stared unblinking at where the shore would be.

Crewmen with long poles spotted from the sides of the boat, making sure the vessel stayed clear of the rocky shore. In places, bluffs rose sharply above the water, visible only where they blocked out the stars. Men hurried about their tasks in a tense, fearful silence, none even sparing a glance for their passengers.

“Can you....hear anything?” Dorian said softly. He still wasn't entirely sure what Cole could read from other people, but if anyone could sense the mercenaries that the first mate was so afraid of, it would be him.

“Everyone here is too loud.” Cole picked nervously at the ragged bandages around his hands. “It's harder to hear if it's far away. _If they try anything, it'll be here. Maker, let me be right..._ Everyone is so afraid.”

Cole was obviously on edge, haunted eyes flitting from one crewmen to the next. Dorian rested a hand on the back of his neck, thumb rubbing circles over the skin there until Cole turned to push against his fingers, seeking comfort in the contact. He didn't have Rhys' skills when it came to pulling Cole out of his melancholy, but he could at least distract him a little; besides, the spirit's warm skin brought blessed relief to Dorian's perpetually chilled fingers.

The oppressive silence continued as the water grew choppier, the river narrowing as encroaching cliffs pushed the water into a deep, swift-running channel. The shout of one of the pole-men made Dorian jump, hands tightening convulsively around Cole as he peered toward where the man was pointing.

For a moment all Dorian could see was the dark, then a fire...a torch falling end over end from the cliff above. It dropped hissing into the water, and the deep, brassy blare of a war-horn rolled down the canyon. 

“They've got chains in the water, I'd bet on it.” The first mate barked a humorless laugh as Captain Rasel blanched a sickly white. “You've killed us all, you stupid, greedy bastard!”

The rattle of something passing under the boat punctuated the man's condemnation, the scrape of metal and then the wet screech of over-stressed wood. The boat lurched hard, dropping half the crew to the deck as it swung sideways in the current, water slopping over the railing.

“Cut the cargo loose!” Captain Rasel screamed, lunging forward to hack at the ropes that secured the bulky pile to the deck. “Get it overboard!”

It was a hopeless task, made more so by the crew who ignored their Captain's frantic orders and milled along the railing, pushing poles against the long length of hook-studded chain caught on the rudder. With a rending crunch, the boat tore free, leaving it's rudder and a fair chunk of railing to swirl in the water behind it. 

The boat jerked forward, helplessly tossed in the current, water pouring over the deck from the gaping holes left by the chains. The last of the cargo ropes parted with a snap, and the deck was awash in bales of furs and fabric, the heavier lyrium containers skidding dangerously on the wet wood. 

Struggling to his feet on the heaving vessel, Dorian pulled Cole with him as he shoved his way through the throng of terrified crew. It would be safer to go over the rail now and take their chances in the water......

“No! We have to help them!” Cole tugged free of Dorian's hand jut as the river-boat hit a second chain strung just below the water.

The impact flung Dorian off his feet, he landed hard, tasted blood and grabbed for one of the intact railings as one of the lyrium containers tumbled past him and into the water. He could see Cole helping a struggling crewman to his feet, the man's ankle bent outward at a gruesome angle and his face running red with blood.

Screams and moans rose from the crew as the deck itself started to come apart. Timbers caulked together with pitch and iron joins tore free, leaving gaping holes that opened and closed with the pressure of the current. Dorian watched one poor pole-man tumble into one of the gaps, dying with a shriek when the timbers crashed back together and crushed him with their weight. 

The floundering vessel tilted sharply, tumbling screaming men into the dark water to be dragged under by the churning currents or dashed on the rocks. Dorian screamed for Cole, saw him turn just before the rest of the railing gave way and he was falling.

Dorian had always considered himself a decent swimmer, but that was in carefully warmed pools and the cultivated beaches of the coast; the river was wild and ice cold. Gasping at the shock, Dorian floundered in water that buffeted him with floating debris. A long spar spun out of the darkness and Dorian flung out a hand to ward it off, shrieking in agony as it hit harder than he expected and his forearm exploded into agony. Choking as water flooded into his mouth and bore him under, Dorian struggled back to the surface with the aid of a hand clenched around his collar.

“Cole!” Dorian gasped, grabbing at a passing piece of debris for buoyancy and struggling to talk through chattering teeth. “We have to get to shore.”

Cole nodded, eyes wide in a pale face that looked disturbingly skull-like with his wet hair plastered to his scalp. Together they kicked desperately for where they assumed the shore was, Dorian fighting to keep afloat as his arm burned with hot agony at every movement. It was like being blind, floundering forward into a blackness that Dorian wished he had the energy to illuminate.

Despite the numbing cold creeping into his limbs, and the pain of his injured arm, Dorian actually had a few minutes to think that they were going to escape the deathtrap the river had become. Then with a crack like lightning touching down, the chain, with the tattered remains of the river-boat caught on it, broke. The collection of twisted timbers, with men caught and shrieking atop them, surged forward like a wave.

Desperate, Dorian tried to call a barrier, but it was a feeble thing that fell to gossamer fragments as the debris rolled over them. A shattered piece of deck slammed into Cole, tearing him away even as Dorian reached out for him, pulling his limp, bloodied form down into the heaving wreckage.

Then everything was dark. Dorian opened his mouth to scream, to rage at how wrong this was, at how fucking unfair, but his mouth filled with water instead. Pressure in his throat, lungs burning, he reached for magic, but for the first time in Dorian's life it failed him; twisted away like Cole's blood in the black water.

Something hard battered at Dorian's ribs, just another ache in his fading consciousness. _I'm dying..._ The thought was almost obscene in it's simplicity. The great Altus son of House Pavus, dead and bloated on some barbaric southern beach. Looted by the mercenaries that had killed him and left for the wild dogs that would scatter his bones and never know what he could have been. _I'm dying, I'm dying.....Cole, please. I'm......_

___________________________________________________________________________

Cold.

It was the small things that came back first. Hands on his face, rough but careful. ' _This one isn't a smuggler, chief. Look's like another vint' for you._ ' 

So cold.

Water gushing out of his throat, a mouth over his. Hands probing at the sick ache in his arm. _'Arm's broken, ribs too.'_

Flailing, gasping air into shuddering lungs. Strong hands holding him down, a knee on his shoulder and the crunch of boots on gravel that heralds a thick blanket being tucked around him. The weave is coarse and smells of horses.

' _No other survivors, Chief. Just this one and the Captain, but Stitches says he'll be gone within the hour. The poor, stupid bastard._ '

There's no dignity in the sobs that wrack his body. He hadn't cried like this since he was a child, shaking with the force of his grief, jaw aching from the shallow screams that trickle from his swollen throat. It's too much, too much...

' _Don't know what's wrong with him. Keeps screaming for someone called Cole....._ '

His vision fades in and out. The massive figure that kneels beside him is nothing more than a wavering shadow, but the huge hand that lifts his head is warm and solid. A canteen rests against his lips; cheap rotgut, elfroot and the sickly-sweet tang of magebane. He gulps at the liquid, welcoming the burn and the oblivion it promises. 

Cold.

Silence.

___________________________________________________________________________

The second time he woke, Dorian was aware of pain. It seeped through the haze, making his breath catch and his mind fight against the effects of shock, grief and whatever he'd drunk. It was like struggling in the river again, floundering clear of black water that dragged at his limbs.

Pressure and a sharp tug at Dorian's arm made him wake fully with a shriek, lashing out with uncoordinated limbs. 

“Hold him still or knock him out again,” a gruff voice instructed. “I've got to get this set or he won't be using that hand again.”

The canteen is pressed against his mouth again, and for a second Dorian struggled, setting his teeth against it before he remembered what was missing. Shuddering, he let his mouth fall slack, Cole's gentle, sad-eyed face the last thing he thought about before the bitter potion pulled him back down into the dark.

___________________________________________________________________________

There was no pain this time. Just a distant, stiff discomfort in Dorian's arm and chest as the world slowly came back into focus. He blinked up at a canvas roof, the patched material thin enough to filter bright sunlight into his watering eyes.

“You're awake. Good.” 

The voice was a deep, bass rumble that made Dorian carefully turn his head. The first thing he saw was the horns. They're broader even than the qunari's impressive shoulders, darker than the scarred gray expanse of his skin. He's sprawled on a chair beside the cot Dorian was lying on, his body a study in carefully orchestrated nonchalance. 

“This is going to work one of two ways.” The qunari announced in an way that would have sounded pleasant if there wasn't steel in his tone. “I am going to ask you questions. You can answer them truthfully and I will bring you food and fresh clothing. You really don't want to try lying.”

“And what if I don't want to answer?” The question burst out of Dorian's mouth before he could stop it. “Who are you? Why did you...why....y...you killed..” To his horror, tears built up in Dorian's eyes and he bit his lip hard enough to draw blood as they overflowed. 

There was no expression on the qunari's grizzled face, neither pity nor condemnation. He simply scratched idly at the base of one horn and waited patiently until Dorian's hitching sobs stopped.

“Now.” The qunari relaxed further into his slouch, lone eye bright and fixed on Dorian's face. “Let's start with your name.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Dorian, gets gets to wake up to Ben-Hassrath!Bull. :(


	17. Tests and acceptance

The qunari, _Iron Bull_ , Dorian reminded himself, leaned back in his chair and rubbed a hand over the rough surface of one horn. “So,” he said in a calm, bass voice. “You're a magister's son who decided to run away with a demon and a wanted apostate, and through no fault of your own, ended up with a bunch of lyrium smugglers?”

Dorian nodded wearily. Over the past several hours he'd answered countless question after question. Instructed to continue his tale until Iron Bull would suddenly jump back to earlier events and drill him mercilessly until Dorian was sweating. The man seemed to have an infuriating ability to tell when Dorian was....not lying exactly, but trying to downplay some of the more sickening aspects of his tale in the hopes of protecting Cole's dignity.

Talking about Cole was almost physically painful. Like pouring salt in a fresh wound, every word made Dorian want to choke. If Iron Bull had any sympathy for his grief, it didn't show on his grizzled face. 

It would almost have been easier if Iron Bull had beaten the story out of him. Somehow it would have felt less ridiculous if Dorian had been forced to answer questions that seemed orchestrated to catch him in a lie. Describe the knife Halward used, what color was Medar's hair, what style of gear had Felix given them.....hours of endless details that Iron Bull had just condensed into one trite sentence.

“Huh.” Iron Bull intoned, as if the story were of no more interest than what Dorian had eaten for dinner last week. He reached behind him and retrieved a change of clothing and tossed it to Dorian. “Get dressed and I'll get you something to eat.”

As much as Dorian would have liked to throw both the rough, patched clothing and the offer of food back at the qunari, his stomach betrayed him by growling loudly at the thought of a meal. How long had it been since the few mouthfuls of rancid stew? Hours, days?

If Dorian had thought Iron Bull would give him some privacy while he got dressed, he was sorely disappointed. It wasn't so much the thought of being naked in front of the mercenary that embarrassed him, it was the way his hands shook as he tried to work his splinted arm through what should be simple sleeves, vision blurring as he wrenched too hard and jostled his bound ribs.

To Dorian's surprise, Iron Bull didn't comment on his nudity, either to mock or encourage. His eye remained impassive, but his hands were almost shockingly gentle as he stood to help maneuver the material over Dorian's head, carefully straightening his collar with a care that seemed odd coming on the heels of hours of interrogation. 

“Come on.” Iron Bull instructed as Dorian followed him out into brilliant sunshine. “You look about ready to drop.”

The camp was set up on a long, rocky beach that followed the river until it curved out of sight. A motley collection of tents and ramshackle buildings that looked like the remains of an old fishing camp spread out in a rough semi-circle. 

A collection of people as odd as the buildings were seated on logs around a campfire. A young man in heavy armor moved over to make room for Dorian, handing him a wedge of bread and a wooden bowl of soup that smelled considerably more appealing than anything the riverboat cook had concocted. 

“Hey, easy.” The armored man cautioned as Dorian gulped down the first few mouthfuls. “Stitches is gonna be pissed if you choke after all his hard work.”

“Our surgeon.” Iron Bull said grudgingly, tilting his horned head at a man drowsing on a heap of old nets when Dorian looked at him blankly. 

Dorian frowned. He could vaguely recall the surgeon setting his arm, his face blurry through a haze of pain and magebane. Now it looked like the man had practiced his craft on himself, one arm wrapped in bandages and a neat line of salve-daubed stitches along one cheek.

“Oh, Chief,” the young man waved a piece of soup-soaked bread at Iron Bull. “Me and Skinner took Captain Rasel's body to his lordship, he signed off on the contract and paid out. No problems.”

“Thanks, Krem. He want any of the others?”

“Nah.” Krem shrugged. “Grimm and Dalish are burning the rest.”

 _Burning the rest...._ The words penetrated Dorian's mind like an arrow through his skull, turning the bread to ash in his mouth. Around the bend in the river, he could see a plume of oily, black smoke straggling into the sky. 

They were burning the bodies. Unbidden, the stark image of Cole being tossed on a pyre like garbage rose in Dorian's mind and his mouth flooded with bile. He barely managed to turn before retching up the food he'd just eaten, bowl and bread spilling from his hands as he gagged. 

The movement sent a wave of pain through Dorian's ribs and he shrieked, black spots dancing in his vision. A heavy hand rubbed soothingly between his shoulder blades and he lashed out with his good arm at the intrusion, making Iron Bull grunt at the impact.

Magebane still sat heavily in Dorian's body, or he would have immolated the hulking qunari and his band of murderers where they sat. Instead he was reduced to flailing at Iron Bull in a helpless rage, landing blows against his chest that were about as effective as punching a stone. 

“I'm sorry,” Iron Bull rumbled, catching Dorian's wrist in one hand and trapping it against his broad chest. Holding him steady as he gasped around the sobs caught in his throat. “I'm sorry, but I had to be sure.”

“F...fuck you!” Dorian snapped, nausea warring with choking grief and making him crass. Somehow Iron Bull's calm, emotionless interrogation was easier than this rough sympathy. 

“Aw, c'mon Chief. No way that was an act.”

“Thank you, Krem.” Iron Bull growled, manhandling Dorian to another seat by the fire. Settling beside him, the qunari rested his elbows on his knees and gave Dorian a long, considering stare. “About an hour after we pulled you out of the water, my boys found another survivor tangled up in some wreckage downriver.”

A thin sliver of desperate hope wormed its way through Dorian. He opened his mouth, but Iron Bull held up one huge hand to forestall his question.

“He was in bad shape, but Krem here is pretty good with water rescue.” Iron Bull snorted at Krem's casual salute. “He wasn't one of Rasel's crew, so I got Stitches to look him over. Thing is, the kid woke up.....”

“Panicked.” Krem finished, frowning. “Came too when Stitches was looking him over, grabbed a knife and cut him up before anyone could stop him. He was incoherent, terrified.....I've never seen anything like it.”

“I have,” Iron Bull said grimly. “On Seheron. Slaves no older than that kid driven mad by Magisters; used for blood magic and their master's own personal.... comforts. I've seen them put a blade to their own throats rather than be used again.”

“You thought I did that to Cole?” Dorian said in a small, horrified voice and nearly laughed at his own naivete. Of course they would think that. And if any of them had got a look at the scars and brands that were the legacy of Cole's time within house Pavus, it was a miracle they hadn't thrown Dorian back in the river. 

“Starting to think not.” Iron Bull rose with ponderous grace, offering Dorian a solicitous hand up. “Let's find out.”

___________________________________________________________________________

“You locked him up?” Dorian said, aghast at the sight of the derelict fishing hut. 

“He hurt one of my boys,” Iron Bull reasoned, hefting a heavy slab of timber that had been used to jamb the door shut. “What was I supposed to do with him?”

It wasn't as dark in the hut as Dorian had feared, not with the sunlight pouring through every crack and gap in the weathered planking. It's dusty and smells faintly of fish, but the space was a far cry from the dark cell Halward had left Cole in for weeks at a time.

Old nets had been heaped in one corner and Cole had curled up in the other, face pressed against his knees and one arm twisted awkwardly beneath him. He didn't react when the door creaked open, and Dorian didn't succumb to panic only because he could see the slight rise and fall of Cole's shoulders.

“Cole?” Dorian said softly, kneeling next to the tightly curled figure. There was a frightening amount of blood matted into his pale hair. “Are you alright?”

Cole raised his head slowly, like someone rousing from a dream, and Dorian gasped at the sight of him. One side of his face was mottled with livid bruises, the white of one eye stained with blood and sunken into a socket so black it looked like he'd rubbed kohl into his skin. 

“Dorian?” Cole said in a hearbroken tone, voice slightly slurred. He reached out to touch the line of Dorian's jaw, ice cold fingers following the shape of his mustache before wrapping tightly in the front of his borrowed clothing. Moving faster than Dorian would have thought possible, given the state of him, Cole flung himself against his chest and burst into tears.

Not caring that the movement pulled at his bound ribs, or that Cole was making a sodden mess of his shirt, Dorian held him as close as he could. 

“Everything was wrong,” Cole wailed, breath hitching. “Broken. I couldn't find where I was supposed to be in your mind.” He let go of Dorian's shirt long enough to touch shaking fingers to the side of his head, “my head is too loud. I hit it on a rock.”

“You're a mess, amatus.” The endearment slipped through Dorian's lips unintentionally and he heard Iron Bull make an insufferably satisfied noise behind him. Fully intending to give the man a piece of his mind over the sorry state Cole was in, Dorian looked over his shoulder and realized the big qunari had already left.

The hazy confusion in Cole's eyes worried Dorian, and he wished he'd paid more attention to Alexius' anatomy lessons. He did know the slurred speech and blood-spotted eyes was cause for concern, he just didn't know why. As Cole's sobs wound down he was snuffling damply into Dorian's shirt, too exhausted to protest about being fussed over.

There wasn't an inch of exposed skin on Cole's body that wasn't scraped and battered; he looked like he'd been dragged face-down over the bottom of the river for miles. Easing the tattered remains of his coat off, Dorian exclaimed softly over the bruising that looked horrific against Cole's pale skin, touching each blemish as if he could erase it with his fingertips.

“You owe me four royals, Chief.” Krem said cheerfully from the doorway. “I told you the boy wasn't his slave. No magister is going to give a slave knives like that.”

“I'm not a magister!” Dorian said testily as Iron Bull ducked slightly to avoid bashing his horns on the door frame. “No matter what every uncouth southern barbarian seems to think.”

“Someone's feeling better I see,” Iron Bull chuckled. He moved slowly, crouching down and peering at Cole who still had his face buried against Dorian's chest. “Hey, kid.”

“You stopped me. Thank you.” Cole muttered softly. “I never wanted to hurt people again, and he was trying to help me I think. Thank you for not letting me.”

“Anytime,” Iron Bull shrugged. “Stitches might even thank you for it. Scars like that are going to have every tavern girl from here to the Free Marches falling into his bedroll.”

“They wouldn't fall. They would want to be there...” Cole trailed off with a whimper, closing his eyes and pressing his forehead harder against Dorian.

“He always like that, vint'?”

“My name is Dorian, and yes.” Dorian stroked the back of his finger along Cole's cheek, “but his head is hurting, I think.”

“Hey, Krem-puff, go find some of those potions Stitches hoards. The good ones, not that shit he hands out to Rocky after he's been drinking Orzammar rotgut.” Iron Bull's big hands were careful as he turned Cole to face him, whistling softly at the darkening bruises. “Been a while since any of the boys got their bell rung this badly.”

“I don't remember a bell...” Cole trembled as Iron Bull prodded at his face. “Dorian...?”

“It's alright, Cole,” Dorian soothed, hoping he was right. 

“Can you walk?”

The question was so unexpected and bordering on condescending, that Dorian bristled instantly. “Of _course_ I can walk, which you wouldn't have to ask if you hadn't nearly drowned me, and..”

“Hey, alright,” Iron Bull raised his hands in mock surrender. “I just wanted to know if I had to carry the both of you.”

Cole yelped when Iron Bull scooped him up, struggling against arms that hefted him like he weighed nothing. 

“Easy,” Iron Bull rumbled, nodding his head at Dorian to usher him out the door first. “Your grumpy vint' is coming too. Just going to get you somewhere a little warmer.”

___________________________________________________________________________

 

“Why are you helping us?” Dorian poured water onto a soft cloth and went back to wiping dried blood from the side of Cole's face. “It would have been much easier to let us die.”

“This job. Fuck.” Iron Bull shook his head. “There wasn't supposed to be passengers on that boat. The Chargers aren't in the business of killing bystanders during a contract.”

The tent Iron Bull had taken them to clearly belonged to the qunari, none of the rest of the Chargers needed a bed that size. A sour, dark haired elf had delivered potions 'for the mad, demon-shem' that had left Cole dozing against Iron Bull's chest while Dorian did is best to clean, bandage and salve every abrasion he could reach. 

“We got hired when Captain Rasel killed a couple of kids that saw him offloading lyrium downriver. Krem went in to warn him.....hoped he'd turn himself in to spare his crew. As you saw, he didn't.” Iron Bull looked down curiously at Cole's bruised face, “chances are they would have killed you both anyway.”

“So you are our savior, rather than the unwashed savage who nearly drowned us both?”

“Hey, I wash!” Iron Bull snorted in amusement as the statement roused Cole, who frowned hazily up at the qunari's horns in obvious confusion, raising one wavering hand to grab at one. “Ok, into bed with you, vint', and take your demon with you.”

Dorian opened his mouth to retaliate and yawned instead. He'd give his last royal to march out of Iron Bull's tent and take Cole with him, but his arm was starting to ache and his ribs twinged with every breath. Bed was starting to look more appealing by the second.

“It's safe...secure. You should sleep.” Cole blinked slowly before focusing on the bandages Dorian had wrapped around his skinned hands. “Why does my skin look different?”

Dorian sank into Iron Bull's ridiculous bed with a sigh of relief, his eyelids felt like they were weighted down with rocks. The emotional turmoil of the last several hours had left him feeling like he'd dueled a pack of wyverns, and the injuries from the near drowning made him feel like the wyverns had won and then stomped on his body for good measure.

To Dorian's surprise, Iron Bull knelt up on the bed and spilled Cole directly into his arms. The shock must have shown on his face, because Iron Bull raised an eyebrow as Cole curled as close to Dorian as he could, burying his face in his shoulder.

“I read that wrong?”

“No, I....just,” Dorian caught his bottom lip in his teeth. How could he explain how it felt to have to hide his attractions. Always from his father, then from Rhys.....he'd expected Cole to be bedded down as far away from him as possible, not settled half-naked next to him as if it was acceptable. Normal. “I...” He pressed a kiss to Cole's tousled head, feeling tears of gratitude burn in his eyes. “Thank you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now I've got the boys back together, Bull can start getting them sorted out. :)


	18. Hats and offers

For the first time in weeks, Dorian woke comfortable and content. It was almost surreal to not be hungry, cold and exhausted. Even the sounds of the Chargers loudly going about the business of weapon's practice and armor repair couldn't diminish his feeling of well-being.

Cole was spread out across Dorian like a warm, bony blanket, one arm stretched across his chest and his face pillowed on Dorian's bicep. Under the thick sleeping-fur Iron Bull had draped over them, Cole had tangled his long legs with Dorian's; even if the mage had wanted to move, he wasn't entirely certain he could.

Picking up Cole's limp hand, Dorian rubbed a thumb over his knuckles. Iron Bull had woken them both up repeatedly through the night to coax Cole into drinking another few mouthfuls of the potent rejuvenating potion Stitches had concocted. The success of the medicine could be seen in the delicate, pink skin that had formed where there had only been raw, torn flesh the night before. Even the dark, mottled bruising had faded, yellowing around the edges as if it had already had several days to heal. 

Encouraged to take the same dosage, Dorian had to admit the Chargers' surgeon was a talented man. Even if his forearm remained splinted, he could move his hand and wrist without pain, breathing easier as his ribs knitted. 

As his discomfort faded, Cole had expanded from his curled up misery and attached to Dorian like a gangling limpet. It was strangely adorable, and Dorian felt almost ridiculously sentimental as he looked down at Cole's sleeping face. He was utterly unlike the men Dorian was usually attracted to, with his ragged hair, uneven teeth and pallid skin marked with old scars and the occasional cluster of freckles.

There was an honesty to Cole, both in mind and body, that made even Dorian's memories of Rilienus' perfectly coiffed hair, buffed skin and carefully cultivated body seem like nothing more than a beautiful lie. 

There was a small smattering of freckles in the shadowed hollow of Cole's collarbone that begged to be touched. Dorian brushed the back of his fingers over the marks, wishing he dared follow them with his mouth. He wanted to taste them with his tongue, follow them down to the dusky nipple just visible under the edge of the covers.

“You should.” Cole said unexpectedly, sounding disturbingly alert. “It would be nice, I think.”

“Cole!” Dorian started, jostling Cole enough that he raised his head with a frown. “I thought you were asleep!”

“I don't sleep.” Cole reasoned, pressing closer to Dorian and resettling his head against his shoulder. “I listen until I slip into the old songs, letting it soothe like Solas showed me.”

Dorian snatched his fingers away from the tempting expanse of Cole's skin, clutching at the edge of the sleeping furs and primly pulling them up until only Cole's ruffled head stuck out. Under the covers, other parts of Dorian's anatomy reminded him that there were long legs entwined with his, and that the skin of Cole's inner thigh was warm and smooth against his hip. 

Maker, his father was right, Dorian realized. His desires were sickening enough that he could get hard simply from contact with an innocent creature who did not, could not, share his pleasure.

“No. He was wrong, not you.” There was irritation warring with the perpetual melancholy on Cole's face as he twisted to look up at Dorian. “But you make it hurt when it shouldn't. You make it wrong when it isn't.”

A sharp ache rose in Dorian's chest. He was better than that, better than the tight heat that coiled in his belly, better than the pulse of desire that smeared pre-come over his skin. He dug his hands into the furs and resisted the overwhelming urge to rut against the solid warmth of Cole's thigh.

“Let me help. Please,” Cole's calloused fingers were gentle against Dorian's face, breath hot against his lips. “You shouldn't hurt.”

“Cole...I can't.” Dorian gasped against the insistence of Cole's mouth. “I wont _use_ you like that, I am not my father!”

With a soft sigh, Cole caught Dorian's hand in his, guiding it down under the furs to press against the desperate ache of his needy flesh. Withdrawing his own fingers once Dorian cupped himself and pressing an open mouthed kiss to the shuddering muscle of his shoulder. 

“You cannot be serious,” Dorian gaped at Cole, trying to ignore how good even his own fingers felt. He hadn't touched himself in so long.... but this was beyond humiliating. “You want me to do this with you here? Now?”

“Yes. It wont hurt if it isn't me.” Cole rubbed his cheek against Dorian's shoulder, fingers tracing some invisible pattern along his clavicle. “The need makes you beautiful, boiling and burning in your blood until it all bursts. I like the brightness.”

Cole flicked his tongue against Dorian's throat like he was tasting the salt on his skin. The unexpected, sharp sting of his teeth followed by the soft lathe of his tongue made Dorian's hips jerk, pushing his slick flesh into his grasping hand as he shuddered. There was no way Cole should know exactly how to take him apart so easily, unless....

“You're in my mind aren't you?” Dorian wound the fingers of his free hand into Cole's shaggy hair, pulling his head up so he could see into his stark, unblinking eyes. When the spirit started to reply, Dorian kissed the answer off his tongue, swallowing it as he moaned into Cole's welcoming mouth. 

Dorian closed his eyes as he moved his hand faster over himself. It was an odd mix of arousing and humiliating to have Cole nestled next to him and obviously skimming the edge of his thoughts for secret desires. Whatever Cole read, it clearly wasn't the rough, perfunctory sex Dorian had often settled for, because his hands stayed gentle and supportive, his cheek resting against Dorian's as he made encouraging little noises into his ear.

As he crested, spilling hot over his fingers, Dorian could feel Cole running his fingers through his hair, ragged fingernails catching on the fine strands and most likely turning his head into a rat's nest. The unexpected intimacy caught Dorian unawares, he was so used to being ignored after that it was almost second nature.

“ _Can you finish yourself?_ ” Cole muttered in an oddly accented voice. “ _It is best we do not speak of this again_.....why would he say that?”

“It's complicated...” Dorian grimaced at the memory. The noble had been older, and his cold dismissal, as if Dorian was of no more consequence than a paid whore, had stung for many years. 

“He shouldn't have hurt you. It was wrong.” Cole said softly, sighing in pleasure as Dorian wiped his hand clean on the covers and pulled him into as tight a hug as his healing ribs allowed. He really was an oddly tactile creature.

It was an almost perfect moment, which was why it was typical that Iron Bull would ruin it by stomping into the tent like he owned the place, which technically he did. 

Dorian shoved Cole sharply away as a reflex, almost tumbling him off Iron Bull's bed with the force of it. “It's not what it looks like!” He protested, trying to ignore the hurt look on Cole's face.

“Okay...” Iron Bull said slowly, shrugging one broad shoulder. To Dorian's horror he sniffed obviously at the air. “Doesn't really smell like nothing though. And in my bed too,” He grinned appreciatively, “that's my kind of dirty.”

Humiliated, Dorian turned away, unable to look at either Iron Bull's craggy face or the way Cole was silently cocooning himself in the blankets. He waited for the Qunari's anger, the condemnation of a fist, anything but the tuneless humming as the big man ignored him utterly to root through the gear stacked in the corner.

“Not that I'm complaining,” Iron Bull eventually commented. “But you two might want to get dressed, the Chargers are moving out.”

 

___________________________________________________________________________

A crossroads-market was, as far as Dorian could see, a place where people gathered to sell stolen goods, items looted from the dead, and mostly-preserved bits of dead animals. The proximity to the ocean guaranteed the presence of stinking fish to add to the overall pervasive odor of untanned skins and rancid scales. 

Had such an assorted rabble attempted such an open gathering in Tevinter, they would have found their market-stalls, and their ill-gotten goods, burned to ash within the hour. Not to mention, nobody would have been interested in such a motley assortment of foul items.

It had been an almost lazy two day march from the river camp to the market where the Chargers planned to sell off old equipment, order new gear, get their armor repaired, and hunt for new contracts. Far from skulking from disreputable inns in the dead of night, the Chargers traveled openly, often announcing their presence with marching songs that ranged from rousing to astoundingly filthy. 

Cole, in an attempt to endear himself to the wounded Stitches, spent days gathering various herbs and bringing them back for the surgeon's approval. By the time he had gathered enough elfroot and lotus to make salve for half the population of Southern Thedas, the taciturn healer had warmed to the spirit enough to honestly thank him for every tattered plant that was delivered.

Seated on the edge of the Charger's gear-cart, Dorian watched the unwashed throng eddy around him and wished, for about the fourth time that hour, that his meager supply of coin hadn't wound up at the bottom of a river. It was shameful to realize that he would actually pay money for substandard fabric and a comb that would probably have to be scoured for lice, but he had never felt so terribly shabby in his life. 

Maker's sake, he was reduced to wearing smalls that had probably been looted off a dead sailor and shaving with the edge of one of Cole' daggers.

Thinking of Cole made Dorian smile a bit. The spirit was following Lieutenant Aclassi around the market like a wide-eyed mabari pup, solemnly accepting advice on everything from how to get a good price for silverite ore to how to tell the difference between true dragon-scale and dyed, varghest-scale knock-offs. 

The last two nights, Cole had selflessly shared both his blankets and his body heat with a shivering Dorian, who was utterly unused to sleeping outside in such an inhospitable country. Away from Rhys' constant disapproving supervision, Dorian was finding it harder and harder to maintain a reputable distance between himself and Cole. One moment he would be aching at the thought of spreading those long, lean thighs and the next he would consider setting his smalls on fire because he was clearly as perverse as Halward had always said.

“Here.” A bundle thwacked solidly into Dorian's chest and he grabbed at it, scowling up at Iron Bull. “Most of this needs some mending, but it's better than what you've got. That and Krem will figure it's his birthday if he's got a ton of shit to sew.”

The bundle turned out to be a sturdy woolen cloak wrapped around a plain, but serviceable set of robes. There were even (thank the Maker!) a few pairs of smalls that looked to be new. It was the small box containing a comb, razor and fragrant block of soap that raised a lump in Dorian's throat, he'd always taken such simple luxuries for granted....

“I don't have the money to pay for these.” Dorian said, re-wrapping the bundle regretfully. It was almost physically painful to hand the simple gift back.

“Ah, take them. It's not charity, I did kind of sink your gear. Besides,” Iron Bull turned to lean against the cart making it groan alarmingly, “the boys are gonna stage a rebellion if they have to march with someone who looks like you two much longer. Krem's getting Cole sorted with new stuff, least we could do.”

“Thank you.” Dorian said with slight difficulty. He was honestly grateful, but there was a proud side of him that wondered what price he would have to pay. What could an Altus of house Pavus possibly have that a Qunari mercenary would want?

“Got a question for you though,” Iron Bull rumbled after several minutes of almost companionable silence. “How long do you plan on eye-fucking that kid.”

_”Excuse me?!”_ Dorian gasped, horrified. “I do not eye-f.....do that.”

“You really do. And when you aren't, the kid is making tragic eyes at you.” Iron Bull attempted to screw his face up into a puppy-like expression of miserable longing that looked more terrifying than endearing. “It's actually kinda sad.”

“It's none of your business!” Dorian snapped with as much dignity as he could manage.

“No,” Iron Bull said amicably, ignoring the dark flush rising on Dorian's face. “But some of the boys have started a bet. Skinner is convinced Cole does weird demon....fade...spirit crap in bed, but you know what I think?”

“I'm starting to suspect you aren't capable of thinking!”

“I think you're afraid. I think someone has drummed bullshit into your head for so long that you're walking on eggshells and waiting for someone to tell you how wrong you are.” Iron Bull's voice was uncharacteristically somber, and his face was heavy with sympathy. “And I think I'd like a few minutes alone with whoever made you think that.”

Dorian swallowed his shock, deflating from his outrage. “I think you are overreacting,” he plastered a smirk on his face that hopefully looked more convincing than it felt. “Cole and I are simply friends.”

“Ah.” Iron Bull gave Dorian a long, searching look. “Good to know. Might have a go myself then. He's a little skinnier than I like, but I'd put coin on him being flexible as fuck.”

There was fire in Dorian's hands before he could even reply, making Iron Bull reel backwards, hands raised in surrender.

“Easy, big guy!” Iron Bull had the gall to laugh in the face of Dorian's rage. “Simply friends, huh?”

Dorian tamped down his magic with effort, clenching his fingers around the flames as they died. The last thing he needed to do was attract unwanted attention. “Cole isn't....he can't...He doesn't feel desire,” Dorian said stiffly. “He's been used by enough people, I wont be one of them. Neither will you.”

Whatever Iron Bull was going to say in response was interrupted as Cole loped up, angular face worried under the brim of what had to be the most horrible hat Dorian had ever seen.

“You were angry....,” Cole wound his slim fingers through Dorian's, eyes anxious. “Now you hurt, worried that you warp and wreck. But you don't, you're good.....The Iron Bull is too. He wants to help.”

“Lets announce that to all the lowlifes shall we?” Iron Bull shrugged his broad shoulders, clearly content to let his prying go for the moment. “Thanks for that, kid.”

“Did they want to know?” Cole peered at the scruffy throng, some of which were staring curiously at the strange group. “I could tell them.”

“Perhaps not.” Dorian separated his fingers from Cole's and poked at the brim of his hat. It looked like someone had drunkenly attempted to merge a helmet with a shapeless piece of leather, then passed out half way through and forgotten what they were doing. “What in the Maker's name is this?”

“It's a hat.” Cole explained solemnly. “Cremisius said I could choose.”

The rest of the clothing Cole was wearing was worn cloth and patched leather in a mottled assortment of colors ranging from brown to brownish gray, only his fitted leathers seemed to have survived Krem's efforts. The clothes were barely serviceable, and while boring and utilitarian, they were probably reasonably warm; the hat, however, was an affront to everything good in the world.

“It's ridiculous, take it off.”

Cole did as Dorian requested, but instead of discarding the travesty of a hat, he clutched it to his thin chest and treated Dorian to a pleading stare. “But I like it! Cremisius said I should pick what felt best for me, and I did.”

To Dorian's irritation, Iron Bull was smirking openly at the situation. It was especially ridiculous since the man was wearing trousers that looked like a carnival tent,which negated any opinion he might have about fashion. Between his amusement, and the way Cole's long face had settled into a hangdog expression of profound misery, Dorian was starting to feel guilty.

“I don't suppose I can convince you to try something else? Maybe even a haircut?” Dorian sighed as Cole shook his head stubbornly, automatically raising a hand to rest against the spirit's hollow cheek. “Very well, amatus, if you insist on looking like a scarecrow then I wont stop you. I will simply have to dress stylishly enough for both of us.”

The concession earned Dorian a sweet, almost smile that made the hat worthwhile, no matter how horrific it was. Cole sighed and pushed his face more firmly against Dorian's fingers, staying there until Iron Bull interrupted the moment with a deep bark of laughter.

“Yup,” the qunari rumbled, slapping Dorian on the back hard enough to almost fell him. “You two are obviously just friends.”

___________________________________________________________________________

The wine was honestly some of the worst Dorian had ever drunk. It would have been considered caustic enough to clean the floors of his Father's great hall back home, or, even more likely, burn any lingering detritus from the drains. 

“I'm not certain I can thank you for this.” Dorian frowned at the scribbled label and handed the bottle back to Iron Bull. Despite his protests, the wine sat well in his stomach and the blazing campfire banished the chill that the alcohol hadn't quite obliterated.

Even Bull grimaced around a mouthful of the swill. “So, have you decided where you'll go next?”

Dorian really hadn't wanted to think about leaving the relative safety of the Chargers. The south was a yawning expanse of unknown cities and cultures waiting to swallow him and Cole, assuming they even managed to stay clear of the Templars long enough to enjoy it. 

There was a part of Dorian that was terrified to think what Cole would do away from the stabilizing influence of Iron Bull and his boys. It was no secret that he wanted to find a way to rescue Rhys, but Dorian was afraid Cole would simply batter himself against the Templars until the order slaughtered them both. Self preservation wasn't a concept the spirit held in high esteem.

“I haven't decided.” Dorian admitted, staring past Iron Bull's craggy face into the campfire. He was on the verge of admitting his worries to the qunari when Cole returned from flitting about the Chargers' camp.

“The Iron Bull?” Cole said in a quiet, worried voice, teeth worrying at his bottom lip. “Cremisius said that people hire you when they need help.”

“That's simplifying it a bit,” Iron Bull shrugged. “But yeah, we take service contracts. That's what mercenaries do.”

“Can I hire you, The Iron Bull?” Cole twisted the bottom of his shirt in nervous hands. “Can I hire you to help me find Rhys?”

To Iron Bull's credit, he didn't laugh at the question. He gave Cole a long, considering look, and when he did speak it was with obvious regret. “You'd have to pay for a contract. The Chargers don't work for free.”

“I could pay.” Cole's hands tightened on his shirt hem hard enough that his knuckles blanched white. There were tremors working under his skin and Dorian had a sick feeling he knew where this was going. “I can be good, quiet and still. I can struggle if you want...”

Iron Bull reached out and carefully unsnarled Cole's fingers from the abused cloth of his tunic, giving them a squeeze before letting them drop. “Coin, kid,” he said sadly. “We take payment in coin.”

Cole looked stricken and relieved at the same time, anxiously folding himself into a space next to Dorian and pressing as close as he could. Iron Bull stared at them both for a long minute, his coarse face grim and tired. 

“Fucking magisters.” Iron Bull eventually growled, tipping the bottle of foul wine back and emptying half of it down his throat in one long swallow. He stared silently into the flames, eye full of anger and shoulders rigid until the fire died into flickering embers.


	19. Love and learning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter took waaaay longer than it was supposed to! Work has been insane.....how dare life interfere with my fic writing, damn it!  
> Wasn't sure how explicit to go with the sex in here (I'm usually all about the smut) so I erred on the side of tasteful. Maybe one day I'll write a 'deleted scenes' series, it could be like Dorian & Cole's sex tape that nobody ever asked for. :D

Dorian bit his lip and tried very hard to look unconcerned as Iron Bull grabbed Cole by the collar and threw him aside like a rag. Cole landed in a tangle, but bounded back to his feet in time to dodge Iron Bull's overhand swing that chewed up the ground where he had been a second before. 

“Don't attack a large target head on, kid.” Bull warned, rolling one shoulder where Cole had managed to land a solid blow with one of his blunted practice-blades. “You're fast, but not that fast.”

Fidgeting with the thin strips of leather he was wrapping around his staff grip, Dorian struggled to remain passively observant as he watched Iron Bull continue to toss Cole around. It was like watching a nug worrying at a druffalo and if he'd thought for a second that Cole was in any real danger the area would already be on fire.

They weren't Chargers, at least not yet. Iron Bull had made it clear that was a title they would have to earn, but he was open to letting them, as he put it, 'earn their keep with the boys'. Or at least, Dorian was earning his keep and Cole was putting anything he earned into trust with Iron Bull towards a future contract. 

“Good!” Iron Bull barked as Cole dodged behind him and his practice knife connected with a slap. “Now keep moving, don't assume your target is dead until they're on the ground.”

“But if the knives were real you would have been dead, The Iron Bull.” Cole turned his unblinking stare towards the qunari. “The soft places there bleed where there is no bone to break the blade.”

“Kidney shot,” Bull nodded appreciatively. “Good method, but don't underestimate adrenaline. I've seen men keep fighting even though they're trampling on their own spilled guts.”

Dorian wasn't sure if he was proud of Cole or disturbed by the sight of him getting thrown around by Iron Bull on a daily basis, an activity that the spirit seemed to adore. He did appreciate Iron Bull's efforts to teach Cole fighting techniques that suited his quick, fast style, and his insistence on curbing the spirit's near-suicidal tendency to assume his opponent couldn't see him, he just wished the qunari wasn't so cheerfully brutal about the process. 

_“You'd rather he learned this in the middle of a fight?”_ Iron Bull had reasoned when Dorian had confronted him, irate over the new bruises he'd found blooming across Cole's shoulder. _”The kids a natural, but he's going to get himself into trouble if he doesn't learn some technique.”_

Iron Bull was right, Dorian admitted, so right it was almost insufferable. But that didn't make it any easier to watch.

“Alright, that's enough,” Iron Bull dropped the thick wedge of dull metal that he hefted as a practice blade and smiled as Cole did the same, body trembling with exhaustion. “You did better today, kid.”

If it was hard for Dorian to watch Cole get flung around by a qunari brute, it was even worse to watch him turn that treasured, sad half-smile towards Iron Bull, the praise brightening his melancholy face. It wasn't that Dorian blamed Cole for responding, but he worried about what Iron Bull's end game might be.

“Thank you, The Iron Bull,” Cole said, sounding genuinely appreciative despite looking like he'd been trampled through the mud by a horse. 

“Yeah, well...” Iron Bull ruffled Cole's shaggy hair and Dorian gritted his teeth when the hand remained, steady and supportive on the back of Cole's neck, thumb resting over the pulse point on his throat. “Don't thank me yet. You're gonna drill with Krem tomorrow and he'll put you on your ass if you don't pay attention.” 

Dorian tightened the leather wrapping until it creaked, tying it off with a sharp jerk as Iron Bull gave Cole a gentle shove in his direction, fingers brushing along his back as he turned. He tried to force a smile onto his face as Cole dropped with a graceless thump next to him, thin face creased with worry as he peered at Dorian.

“You're.....angry. Not bright, but boiling, burning inside until everything becomes raw.” Cole nervously twined his fingers together, ragged nails making marks where he dug them into his palms. “Did I do something wrong?”

“You? No, not at all.” Dorian rubbed a smudge of dirt from Cole's sunken cheek and was soothed when he pressed eagerly into his hand. An almost morbid curiosity prompted him to ask:“What do you think of Iron Bull?”

“He wants to help.” Cole said confidently. “He dreams of fire sometimes. Buildings and broken bodies burning, blood in the streets. The magisters hurt people there so they could be stronger, The Iron Bull thinks of them when he looks at me.”

“Seheron,” Dorian said grimly; he'd forgotten that Iron Bull had mentioned being there. The stories of brutality and mindless carnage were skewed to favor Tevinter, but Dorian was clever enough to read between the lines when it came to the propaganda the Imperium spewed out. “I suppose that explains a few things...”

“You thought he would hurt me? Like Medar did, like the templars did to the real Cole?” Cole looked worried, as if Dorian thinking badly of Iron Bull was a matter of great concern. “He wants to help me, repair what was ruined.... _kid needs to build up some confidence, stop flinching every time someone gets near him or he's going to look like a target._ He helps Krem too, a hand on the shoulder, silent support so he knows he isn't wrong here.”

“I think I feel a bit foolish,” Dorian admitted. “I thought he was....trying to take you away from me.”

“He couldn't. The Iron Bull is very strong, but I'm faster.” Cole said fiercely, as if Iron Bull hadn't been chasing him around the practice yard for an hour. “I'm stronger now too, and I don't want to be his.”

The last was said a bit plaintively and Cole pressed himself closer like a gangly puppy. If one thing had come from Iron Bull running him around every day it was that there was now lean muscle on Cole's long limbs. Unfortunately there was no amount of exercise that was going to change his sunken eyes and starvation-gaunt face, not unless Iron Bull starting bullying him into eating, which Dorian viewed as a near-impossibility.

“I'll have to talk with the great lug later,” Dorian admitted, grimacing as if the words tasted foul. “I have a feeling I was a bit rude earlier...”

“The Iron Bull said you had your skirts in a twist.” Cole frowned in confusion. “I told him that you didn't wear skirts and that your robes always look like that.”

“Oh, and what else did he say?”

“He said I wasn't a wrecked, wrong thing.” Cole was determinedly turning the end of one sleeve into a tattered mess. “And that wanting isn't wrong either. I'm me enough to chose.”

“Yes, well...” Dorian pressed a kiss to Cole's ragged hair before tugging at a strand and abruptly changing the direction of the conversation. “I really wish you'd let me do something about this disaster, amatus. It's getting ridiculous.”

“Would it make you happy?” Cole looked so hopeful that Dorian immediately felt guilty. “You can if it helps.”

__________________________________________________________________________

It seemed rare that The Chargers stayed at anything resembling an inn, preferring to save their coin and camp in the woods like a bunch of savages. Dorian had been utterly thrilled when Iron Bull had announced they would stay a few days at the dubious looking establishment so his 'boys' could get, as the qunari crudely phrased it,' some booze and tits.' (He later amended it to include 'cards and cocks' after complaints were raised.)

Unfortunately, the inn was everything Dorian had come to dread about the south. Namely, it was positively filthy,the food was horrible, and the patrons as course as the linens. The only saving grace was that Dorian could share a room, actually it was a boarded off section of the attic, with Cole in the first bit of privacy they'd had in weeks. It was a questionable privacy however, given that the boards dividing the 'rooms' were as thin as the patchwork blankets and they'd all had to listen to Skinner's rather sordid evening with the well muscled young man who worked in the inn's ramshackle stable.

“I think that's an improvement...” Dorian brushed dubiously at the few loose strands of hair clinging to Cole's shoulders. 

Despite how easy it seemed, cutting hair was more difficult than Dorian had assumed, especially since nobody seemed to have any scissors and he'd have to make do with one of Cole's knives. At a bit of a loss, he'd eventually gathered Cole's ragged hair in one hand and determinedly sawed the last few inches off the whole mess. 

“Does it look like yours?” Cole said curiously, twisting to try and see what Dorian was doing. He was sitting on the floor between Dorian's knees, one long-fingered hand curled around the mage's ankle in a way that was slightly distracting. 

“I am neither that bold or that talented I'm afraid.” Dorian gingerly cut at a few more strands in an attempt to bring slightly more symmetry before giving up with a sigh. “I'm not sure if I hope this grows out or pray that it doesn't.”

Cole sighed happily as Dorian ran his fingers across his scalp, fussily flicking stray hairs onto the floor. There was an oddly smooth, discolored patch of scarred skin on the now-exposed nape of the spirit's neck, and Dorian rubbed his thumb over it curiously before realizing with a sick kind of dread that he had put it there. 

How many times had Halward demanded that Dorian set his magic against his captive, and how many times had he simply done as he was told. He'd never enjoyed it, mostly he'd found it distasteful and tedious, but he'd never really protested beyond trying to make himself scarce. 

“You didn't know.” Cole said softly into the suddenly tense silence. 

“That doesn't excuse it.” Dorian bent and pressed his lips to the scar, wishing he had the healing magics of the strange elf Cole had met so he could erase all trace of his mistake. “I have no idea why you forgave me for this....”

Cole twisted up from the floor so fast that Dorian had no time to react before the spirit was straddling his lap and staring him straight in the face. “You didn't know,” he repeated a bit more forcefully than Dorian was used to. “You were torn, tied to obey....I was just a thing. But you learned, became what you wanted to be. Should be. Are.”

“I still wish I had learned a bit sooner...”

“When Rhys...” Cole's voice caught on the name and his face darkened with sorrow. “When Rhys told me it was wrong to kill the mages, that I could be more.....I had to change. Grow. I couldn't go back and not kill them, so I had to become something that helped the hurt instead of harming. You did the same.”

“I think you give me a bit too much credit,” Dorian blustered, trying to distract himself from Cole's closeness and how good he felt in his lap. “Always seeing the best in people.”

Dorian froze when, instead of replying with words, Cole wriggled closer and closed his mouth over his. With surprise overriding the desire that Cole usually used as a guide, it was an oddly gentle, cautious kiss that Dorian allowed to go on longer than he should. 

“The Iron Bull said it's not wrong to want,” Cole said when Dorian finally pulled away, hanging his head. “I wont become something wretched and wrong...”

“I never thought that you would!” Dorian frowned, setting the tips of his fingers under Cole's chin and raised his head. He hated himself for the disappointment that welled in him when Cole's pulse under his fingers was calm and steady, unaffected by their proximity. “Maker, Cole....I just wish you could want me the way I want you.”

“I didn't know there were wrong ways to want.” Cole blinked slowly, face settling into a familiar misery. “I'm sorry, Dorian.”

“Hey now, it's not wrong....just different.” Cursing himself for the weakest of fools, Dorian trailed his fingers down the angles of Cole's throat, slipping beneath the ragged collar of his shirt to touch the smooth skin along one collarbone. “What does this feel like to you?”

“Gentle. Safe. Your fingers remember magic and the fade still sings under the skin.” Tentatively, Cole returned the caress, almost smiling when Dorian shivered under his fingers. “It feels different for you, taught and tightening...”

“Yes, thank you. I'd rather you didn't explain that to me, its mortifying enough experiencing it.”

“It isn't wrong for you to want either.” Cole leaned forward to whisper against Dorian's ear, his breath a precursor to the wet heat of his tongue and the unexpected sharp sting of teeth. 

“Ow!” Dorian poked at his earlobe, half expecting to see blood on his fingers. “Maker's sake, Cole! That stung.”

“You wanted it to.” Cole worried his bottom lip between his teeth and managed to almost look contrite. “It sticks in your mind like a bruise, loud and layered. It was easy to see.”

Dorian wished with every fiber of his being that the feel of Cole's thighs against his legs and the heat radiating off his body didn't send a sharp spike of arousal through him. He'd never wanted to deny his attractions so much before, even when his father's disapproval had soured their relationship and threatened his position in the Imperium. 

If he was half the man he hoped to become, Dorian would have casually removed Cole from his person and gone somewhere public and neutral. Perhaps seen if Cole had any aptitude for one of the southern card games that the Chargers were so fond of. “What else do you see?” He said roughly instead.

The honest surprise that flitted across Cole's face was nearly funny. It wasn't often Dorian could shock him, especially given how easily he could sift through his most private thoughts. Then the spirit's eyes got that intense, unfocused stare like he wasn't looking _at_ Dorian, but through him into all the secret, hidden places that made him burn with shame and ache all at the same time. 

Before the moment could go from awkward to humiliating, Cole's eyes refocused and he yanked Dorian towards him, their mouths meeting in a rough kiss that bordered on savage. There was none of Cole's sweet caution here, and the knowledge that the spirit was drawing on the involuntary, carnal desires that lingered in Dorian's mind made him burn with shame. 

Cole jerked back long enough to drag his patched shirt off over his head in answer to Dorian's unspoken wish to lick the taste of salt and metal from his skin. His skin was as pale as Dorian remembered, long bones covered with old scars and ropy, developing muscle. He was quivering with tension, fingers clutching so tightly that Dorian could feel the sting of his ragged fingernails. 

“You're so loud,” Cole whimpered as Dorian pulled away, concerned. “Thoughts and wants and I don't know how to be all of them and still be me.”

Startled, Dorian carefully dampened his own mind like he did before attempting more complicated spells. Replacing the seemingly endless cycle of lewd thoughts with an attempt at cool serenity that was somewhat difficult considering that his trousers were getting more uncomfortable by the second. “Better?”

Cole nodded slightly, leaning forward and burying his face in Dorian's shoulder, lips moving against his skin as he spoke. “I want you, and we are better together I think....but I don't know how to do all of those things....I didn't think mages put staffs..”

“Please don't finish that thought!” Dorian pleaded. 

“I liked some of it.” There was the slightest hint of a smile on Cole's melancholy face as he peered up at Dorian. “Sometimes you want so loudly it bleeds through your being, blending with the hurt until they both become bigger. I want to help.”

It was as blatant an invitation as Dorian had ever heard, more appealing even than the sly enticements of the young men who peddled their flesh in some of his favorite establishments. He'd been trying so hard to respect Rhys' wishes, but the calm acceptance shown by the Chargers and their leader had started to eat away at the doubts and strictures. 

“Is that all this is?” Dorian stroked a hand along the sharp angle of Cole's shoulder and felt him sigh in contentment. “You helping?” Because if that was all this was, a compunction that Cole felt he had to follow.....

“No. Sometimes?” Cole shook his head slightly. “I want to help, to make you feel good. Happy....but I want for me too. I want to be yours, bound without binding....is that wrong?”

“No, that's not wrong.” Rhys' condemning words still rung in Dorian's mind. Cole wasn't wrong, but maybe he was for wanting this....

“No.” Cole murmured, winding long arms around Dorian's neck. “Rhys is very smart, but he wanted to make me what I was before. Untouched, unspoiled, unbroken. He didn't like that I could chose....that I learned there were different ways to be taken.”

“You aren't _spoiled_.” Dorian hated that Cole seemed to think what had been done to him made him somehow....less. The other words he wanted to say, the reassurances that clustered on his tongue, slipped away as Cole kissed him sweetly, deft fingers working at the buckles and buttons of his robes. 

It seemed almost surreal to allow Cole to carefully tug his robes aside, every touch gentle and supportive in a way Dorian had never felt before. His lovers had usually been cursory at best, chasing their own pleasure and merely expecting his body rather than appreciating it. The intimacy of simply being _touched_ overrode his worries and when Cole pulled him down onto the bed, Dorian closed his eyes and let himself fall.

___________________________________________________________________________

Dorian called a barest trace of fire into his hands before pressing down into the muscles on Cole's upper back, making the spirit sigh and spread out in contentment. 

In an attempt to assuage his inevitable guilt, Dorian had used a water-soaked, soft shirt to clean every last trace of their lovemaking from Cole's skin before massaging any lingering tension from his long limbs. Cole's state of near-liquid relaxation went a long way towards soothing the sick ache that had started in the pit of Dorian's stomach the second he had recovered enough to pant out a desperate, shaky apology.

Although Cole had encouraged anything that contributed to his pleasure, Dorian found his continued lack of physical response to be somewhat disconcerting. If he hadn't already known the spirit loved to be touched, Dorian would have assumed that Cole was merely pandering to him, which would be utterly unacceptable. He also wished he could reciprocate and teach Cole that his human body could feel sensual pleasure rather than just privation and pain. 

“There's different ways to feel,” Cole muttered hazily. As Dorian's hands continued to work down his spine, Cole stretched out further and his eyes fluttered shut. “I like this, it feels like I'm warm from the inside.”

Dorian was cautious over the brand scars that marred the pale skin down the middle of Cole's back, but the spirit didn't seem to be uncomfortable so he pressed harder earning himself a dozy hum of approval. “Are you actually going to sleep?”

“No.” Cole cracked his eyes open. “I don't sleep anymore, but I can listen to the songs until I get stronger again. Solas showed me how.”

Personally, Dorian thought that sounded a great deal like sleeping, but he wasn't about to argue the point with the seemingly infinite knowledge of Cole's mysterious mage friend.. As he smoothed his hands along the sharp bones of Cole's hips, Dorian winced to find bruises where he'd dug his fingers in earlier. “I'm sorry,” he said softly, uncomfortably reminded of how Cole had looked the first time he'd taken him to his rooms back home. All scraped and bloody, black bruises like fingers on his skin. 

“It's not the same.” Cole stirred, rubbing his cheek against the rough coverlet. “I like this hurt. It's not hard and harmful, it's mine and it means I'm yours.”

“How do you always know exactly what to say?” 

“Skinner says I shouldn't say anything and that The Iron Bull should sew my meddling, shem mouth shut,” Cole said amiably, startling a laugh out of Dorian. “Then she bought me a drink so I would know she didn't mean it, but I gave it to Rocky.”

Having got that anecdote out of the way, Cole buried his face against the covers with determination. Dorian watched silently until his breathing went slow before shifting carefully off the bed, there was a new weight in his chest that was both wonderful and terrifying. 

Tugging on his rumpled robes, Dorian smiled down at Cole. Reaching down to brush aside an errant strand of hair, Dorian bent to press his lips to the hollow of Cole's cheek. The spirit didn't so much as stir when Dorian smiled against the heat of his skin. “Enjoy your fade-songs, amatus.”

___________________________________________________________________________

Dorian kicked a clod of dirt savagely across the inn-yard and wished he could set it on fire for good measure. Cursing the fears of backwards southerners that made a show of magical prowess unwise he spun on his heel and nearly crashed straight into Iron Bull's expansive chest.

“Fasta vass! Make some noise next time!” Dorian spat, anger roughening his voice. He'd spent the last hour analyzing every horrible decision he'd made that day, and the inevitable results. Cole was going to wake up and realize that Dorian was no better than the men his father had turned lose on him. and Dorian would have no choice but to crawl home, providing the Chargers didn't bury him first.

“Well, you aren't moping. Krem owes me a silver, he was sure you'd be moping.” Iron Bull grinned at the baffled outrage on Dorian's face and risked immolation by clapping him on the shoulder. “Come on mage-boy, lets get you a drink before you terrify the serving girls.”

The pretty, freckled girl who brought drinks in slightly lopsided mugs did look a bit nervous until Dorian schooled his glower into something a bit less intimidating. He could at least face whatever the qunari had in store for him with dignity.

“So,” Iron Bull leaned back in his chair until it creaked alarmingly. “What are you tying yourself in knots about, sounded like you were having plenty of fun earlier.”

“Fun?” Dorian said in a softly horrified voice, surely he couldn't mean....

“Honestly you could drop a coin upstairs and half the taproom would hear it.” Iron Bull shrugged one massive shoulder. “Dalish has been rooting for you two for weeks, I swear I actually saw her shed a tear.”

“Oh...” Dorian felt sick. “I see. I'll...I'll get my things and..”

“Hey, no.” Iron Bull reached across the table and wrapped one hand around Dorian's wrist. Firm but unexpectedly gentle. “Don't you get it, Dorian? Look....Cole is a sweet kid. Weird, creepy and sometimes downright scary, but sweet. If me or any of my boys thought you were going where you weren't wanted there wouldn't be enough of you left to send home in a helmet. Beyond that, nobody gives a shit.”

It was true that there was a marked lack of reaction from the other Chargers. Rocky was determinedly finding the bottom of his sixth mug of ale while Skinner robbed him blind at cards. Krem was fiddling with some new sewing project while keeping one wary eye on the door.....not a one of them was sharpening weapons or looking even slightly concerned. 

“And I get that you're worried, you wouldn't be half the man you are if you weren't.,” Iron Bull continued before Dorian could speak. “From what you and the kid have told me, you've been through some shit that makes me want to go north and break some heads. I'd be tempted to say you'd do anything to keep Cole happy, and if it makes him happy to suck you off or get fucked then just take it as a gift.”

“And just ignore that he doesn't like it?”

“Lots of ways to like something without liking it with your dick.” Iron Bull itched idly at one horn and smirked at the dark flush staining Dorian's cheeks. “And yeah, you're going to find stuff he doesn't like. Just talk to him about it, figure it out so it works for both of you.”

“Just like that?” Dorian almost snorted in disbelief. “You make it sound so easy.”

“Easy?” With a bass rumble of laughter, Iron Bull let go of Dorian's wrist and gestured towards the stairs. “You're a wanted 'vint mage sleeping with a damaged demon who's pretending to be a dead kid, nothing about that is easy....or sane. But look at him, really _look._

Wandering down the stairs into the inn's main room, Cole was still thin and awkward, but he was a far cry from the hunched, frail creature that Dorian had first encountered. There was a lithe grace to his steps that had everything to do with the training Iron Bull had been putting him through, and a spark in his pale eyes and a sad near-smile that Dorian knew was for him. 

“You starting to get it, mage boy?” There was a warning growl in Iron Bull's voice. “Or am I going to have to knock some sense into that thick head?”

Cole slid onto the bench next to Dorian and tucked his legs up, staring wide-eyed at Iron Bull from under the mess of hair that was stubbornly resisting Dorian's best efforts to control it. “Please don't hit Dorian in the head, The Iron Bull.”

“Hoping I don't have to, kid.”

“I don't think that will be necessary.” Dorian caught Cole's hand in his, twining their fingers together and smiling as the spirit tilted his head to rest it against Dorian's shoulder. “I think I'm starting to understand.”


End file.
